Displaced Sin
by Taywen
Summary: In which Monday is proud, Sunday is envious and Arthur is kind of in over his head. One out of three isn't bad, right? Basically the alternate universe where the Trustees' sins don't line up quite so conveniently. Series of drabbles.
1. divergence

Disclaimer: The Keys to the Kingdom series does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Garth Nix, etc.

* * *

Displaced Sin

* * *

Monday looks at Sneezer.

"Really?" he asks. "I run a perfectly maintained operation, nothing like the shambles of the other Demesnes. Did you not consider that I would notice when one of my closest subordinates began to act out of character? That I would be on my guard because of the Will's escape?"

Sneezer tries to move, but his limbs refuse to obey. He is frozen, immobile, hands poised at the controls for the Seven Dials; Monday has laid his hand against the Minute Key, wordlessly invoking its power to hold the Denizen in place.

Though his mouth will not open, a deep voice issues from him.

"The Architect's Will _will_ be done, Monday," the voice says, echoing off the walls of the Day room.

"Perhaps," Monday says calmly. "But you have failed today." He turns back to the Seven Dials, expertly set by Sneezer moments before.

"It would be a shame to let the Rightful Heir that you handpicked go to waste, though," Monday muses, as the hour begins to sound.

"There is to be _no interference_," the Will roars. "The Original Law-"

"Disregarding, of course, the interference necessary to hand over my Key," Monday says drily. Then, "Silence the Will for a minute and confine the Will in this room for an hour." The two portions of the First Key glow briefly, and the Will is silent.

Monday steps into the centre of the Dials just as the twelfth chime sounds and disappears.

* * *

The schoolyard is deserted. Monday frowns, casting his eyes about the area, but there is no one in sight. Certainly no one matching the description of- here Monday pauses to consult the copy of the record the Will somehow acquired- Arthur Penhaligon, human, 12 years of age.

Monday is aware of the shoddy state of the other Demesnes; the Lower House only deals with defunct records and as such this record is beyond his purview. This record, as with all records that concern living mortals, falls under Friday's administration. That the record should contain inaccurate information is not out of the question.

Friday has become increasingly erratic in the millennia following the breaking of the Will. (She is not the only one, of course; Friday is just the Trustee of whom Monday is most aware, since their purposes are concurrent.) Matters that ought to be corrected with a minimum of fuss are often ignored for fear of inciting the Lady's fury.

Monday himself avoids meeting her in the Middle House, where her power outstrips his own. Though they are equals, he has his doubts about her self-control. He hesitates even to invite her to the Dayroom, where his powers would be superior. Friday's company has become exceedingly unpleasant, but this (falsified?) record must be discussed.

Monday scowls at the prospect and raises the Minute Hand. He sketches a set of imaginary steps in the air and enters the Improbable Stair.


	2. an unexpected visitor

"Dusk," Monday says, once he and his Times have finished resealing the Will away.

Though he is the least of Monday's Times, Dusk does not cower at the dangerous note in Monday's voice.

"Master?" His dark tongue flashes between his teeth, eyes properly downcast.

"I would speak with you alone. Leave us," Monday adds, his eyes flicking to Dawn and Noon. The two Denizens bow and take their leave. Dawn casts a single glance back before following her brother out the door.

A few moments after the door clicks shut behind Dusk's siblings Monday says, "You helped the Will escape." It isn't a question.

Dusk nevertheless answers: "Yes."

"Why?"

Dusk blinks, his gaze darting to Monday's face briefly before returning to the floor. It is the first sign of emotion (of apprehension) that he has betrayed. "The House is in shambles. It has been since the Will was broken-"

"-so you thought that releasing the Will and helping it find a Rightful Heir would fix things?"

Dusk bows his head. "Yes, master."

"My Demesne is running as efficiently as it ever has," Monday says.

"It seemed imprudent to begin with anything other than the first part of the Will. ...And I did not have access to any other parts," he admits.

"The truth emerges," Monday deadpans.

"You cannot think-" Dusk's eyes flash with unusual passion; he is typically the most reserved of Monday's Times. He cuts his hoarse shout short though, the leather of his dark gloves squeaking as he clenches his hands into fists.

Monday eyes Dusk curiously. The Time is essential to the running of the Lower House, though he is often eclipsed by Noon or Dawn. While Monday is perfectly within his right to cut the traitor down where he stands, it would be inconvenient; and Dusk's plans have not unduly interrupted the functioning of the Lower House, so Monday does not find himself inclined to punish Dusk.

"I cannot think _what_, Dusk?" he asks, once it becomes obvious that Dusk has no intention of continuing.

"The rest of the House is falling to pieces, master," Dusk says, seemingly calm once more. "You complain of the shoddy work coming down from the Middle House (with good reason) and that is only the Demesne that we are in close contact with. I have some inkling of what goes on in the other Demesnes and it cannot continue. The Lower House will not stand after the others have fallen."

"The House would 'fall to pieces' if the Will was reunited and a Rightful Heir ascended," Monday says. He purses his lips and walks over to the window overlooking his domain. Nothing is out of place. Everything is as it should be: orderly, efficient, prompt.

"Master?"

"What I tell you now is not to be repeated." He turns back to Dusk, who is watching him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "The Will left behind by the Architect sought the destruction of the House."

"Why-?"

"The Architect no longer wished to exist," Monday says shortly. "But She and the Old One were once a single being; She could not end her existence so long as the Old One survived. And, as you know, he is eternally chained to a clock face in the Deep Coal Cellar."

Surprise, betrayal and revulsion flicker across Dusk's features in rapid succession before his usual neutral mask slips into place. "I see."

Monday smiles, though there is no mirth in it. There is nothing humorous about the situation. "Whether you believe me or not is beyond my control. But ask yourself this, Dusk: what reason would we have to betray the Architect, other than to protect our very existence? We had no cause for disloyalty before."

Dusk bows his head. "I apologize, master. I did not know."

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation.

"Enter," Monday says; it must be important or rather, it had better be important to warrant interrupting a meeting that he had specifically designated as private with his two lieutenants.

"There's is another Trustee here to see you sir. He's very high up," Dawn says apologetically.

Monday frowns. There ought to be no reason for one of his peers to enter the Lower House, particularly without giving prior warning. He has yet to request a meeting with Friday, and in any case she cannot be his visitor.

"Send him in. Dusk will attend me; you and Noon go about your usual business for the day," Monday tells her.

Dawn bows and shuts the door softly behind herself.

"Do you know what happened to the Rightful Heir that the Will chose?" Monday asks, confident that they will have a minute or so before the other Trustee arrives.

"I do not; all I knew was that Arthur Penhaligon was to die on a Monday," Dusk replies.

Monday's frown deepens. Even though his portion of the Will has been resealed, it seems that something is afoot in the House.


	3. first meeting i

Note: this story isn't written in chronological order [for some parts]; this portion of the story takes place long before the Will escapes and Monday ventures to Earth.

* * *

It isn't often that Arthur gets to go out with his mother, Emily. She works long hours at the hospital, and it isn't unusual for her to be called in on her days off. Arthur's father (Bob) stays home, composing music and taking care of the kids, so Arthur sees him more often.

On this day, Arthur and his mother are out grocery shopping. Bob locked himself in his studio the night before, caught in the throes of creativity; he'd been sound asleep when Arthur and Emily left the house. Arthur's older siblings (the ones that still lived at home), Eric and Michaeli, were sleeping over at their respective friends'.

Arthur hasn't entered school yet. In a few months he will, but for now he stays at home with Bob. He doesn't have that many friends, because he doesn't get out much. If he plays too hard, he could have an asthma attack and Arthur hates the constricted feeling in his chest that comes with one. So he prefers to stay inside and read or help Bob with his music.

There's a really tall man lurking in the electronics section of the department store. Arthur isn't very tall, but even he can see the man through the glass walls of the section. People act like they don't see him and walk around him, maybe because of the way he's frowning at the items on the shelf in front of him.

"I'm just going to pick up your prescription, Arthur. Do you want to look at the toys?" Emily asks, drawing his attention away from the weird man.

"'kay," he agrees.

The toys are near the electronics, and there's a display of Lego really close to the entrance of the electronics. Arthur looks at it for a while, but soon becomes bored. He could go look at the other toys, but they're not nearly as interesting as the tall man.

Before he really realizes it, Arthur finds himself standing beside the man. He can't quite see what the man is frowning at, and he has to crane his head back almost as far as it can go to look up at the man's downturned face.

"What are you looking at, mister?" Arthur asks.

The man turns the object over in his hands, ignoring Arthur.

Which is rude. Emily always says that you should be polite when someone talks to you. She also says not to talk to strangers but as soon as the man answers Arthur and they introduce themselves they won't be strangers anymore.

When Arthur repeats his question and doesn't get a response again, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

He pokes the man in the back of the knee (which is about as high as he can reach) as hard as he can and loudly says, "Hey, mister!"

The man startles, dropping the item on the shelf with a clatter. His frown deepens when he looks around several times before thinking to look _down_.

"Can you see me?" the man asks, blinking at Arthur.

Arthur blinks back. "'Course I c'n see you," he says, bewildered.

"Arthur Penhaligon! You know you're not supposed to wander off alone," Emily scolds, swooping down on him.

"But 'm not alone," Arthur protests, although he knows that he has broken one of the rules. Several of them, actually. He looks up at the man, expecting him to step in on Arthur's behalf.

"Arthur, what if you got lost? You know you're not supposed to talk to strangers," Emily says, taking his hand in her own and tugging lightly to get him to follow her.

Oops. Another rule broken. Although Emily doesn't seem to notice. "But-"

"No buts. We have to get some produce now. Fruits and vegetables."

Arthur looks back over his shoulder as Emily leads him out of the electronics. The man is still staring at him.

Arthur waves; the man waves back, a confused expression on his handsome face.


	4. introductions

Arthur doesn't see the tall man again for a long time. Then, right after school starts, the man shows up again.

Arthur's playing on the playground with some of the kids in his class. He thinks they might be friends, but he isn't sure yet. Right now they're playing tag, although Arthur's slower than the others because he doesn't want to trigger his asthma.

Bob is sitting on one of the nearby benches, talking with someone's mother, but the other bench is empty. Or it _was_ but when Arthur looks back, the tall man is sitting there rather stiffly. He's much too big for it, his knees folded awkwardly, and he's staring right at Arthur.

Arthur manages to tag one of the other kids and backs away from the sandbox. "I'm going to take a break," he says.

The man has a weird expression on his face as he watches Arthur approach, but doesn't do anything when Arthur pulls himself up onto the bench next to him.

"Hi," Arthur says.

"Hello," the man says.

"I'm Arthur," Arthur adds, because it's polite to introduce yourself.

"... You can call me Phineas," the man says after a moment.

"Phineas," Arthur repeats, slowly sounding the name out. "Nice to meet you." He smiles and holds a hand out for Phineas to shake.

Phineas stares at it for a couple of seconds, then takes it in his own. He has the biggest hands that Arthur has ever seen; he could maybe wrap his hand around Phineas' thumb. _Maybe_.

"Likewise," Phineas says.

They sit in silence on the bench, watching the other kids run around.

"Why aren't you playing?" Phineas asks suddenly.

Arthur shrugs. "I have asthma. It's better not to run around too much, in case I get an attack." It's happened before, but Arthur doesn't want it to happen again.

"Asthma?"

"Uh-huh. Sometimes I have trouble breathing. But I have this-" he pulls out the blue puffer that Emily was picking up the last time Arthur saw Phineas, "-for when that happens."

Phineas blinks. "I see."

Arthur isn't sure if Phineas does see or not, but he's not going to press the issue.

"So who are you?" Arthur asks, after his puffer has been safely returned to his pocket.

"Phineas."

"No," Arthur says impatiently. "Like what do you do?"

"I tend the Incomparable Gardens."

"Incompable... So you're a gardener?"

"In a manner of speaking," Phineas says, but he doesn't look happy to be called that.

Arthur's about to ask what sorts of flowers there are in Phineas' gardens when the mother that Bob was speaking to suddenly coos, "Oh, does Arthur have an imaginary friend?"

Arthur peers around Phineas to frown at Bob and the mother on the other bench. "He's not _imaginary_." He kicks lightly at Phineas' ankles for emphasis.

The woman mostly ignores him and resumes chatting with Bob. Arthur can hear his name mentioned a lot, but decides he doesn't care.

"You're not imaginary," Arthur says accusingly, looking up at Phineas.

"No; but she cannot see me," Phineas says. "Stop kicking," he adds, tugging at his dark pants to examine the dusty scuffs Arthur's leaving behind.

"Sorry!" Arthur scoots away, feeling guilty.

Phineas brushes his gloved hand over the marks and they disappear. "No harm done," he replies. He pulls back his sleeve to reveal a shiny watch, which he stares at for a second. "I had better be going." Phineas stands, reminding Arthur just how tall he is.

"Wait," Arthur says. "When are you going to be back?"

Phineas looks surprised. "The next suitable day that I am available, I suppose." Which doesn't answer Arthur's question, but before he can ask more, the man disappears.


	5. home encounter

Phineas doesn't show up for a long time after that, so long that Arthur forgets all about him. Until one day when Arthur is home sick with a stomach bug. Michaeli and Eric are out with their friends; they didn't want to catch it, which Arthur can understand. He wishes he hadn't caught it either.

He's sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and listlessly watching television. Bob's in the studio, but he left Arthur with a cell phone to call him if he needs anything.

Gradually, Arthur becomes aware of loud honking and shouting from behind him. At first he thought it was from the tv, but it obviously isn't. Arthur slowly gets up and makes his way to the front window. The blinds are pulled, because the sun is a bit too bright for his tastes right now, but he peeks under them anyway.

Phineas is standing in the middle of the road and it seems like he's the cause of a traffic accident. He's peering around at the houses, like he's looking for something, and doesn't seem aware of the chaos surrounding him.

Arthur glances down the hall; the basement door is closed, and Bob's studio is soundproof anyway. No one can hear the music he's composing, and he can't hear anything outside of it. Satisfied that he can get away with going outside (even though he's not supposed to when he's sick) Arthur opens the door.

"Phineas!" he calls, or tries to. What comes out is little more than a hoarse croak that hurts his sore throat.

But Phineas seems to hear him anyway, because he whips around really fast, something like relief on his handsome face.

"There you are," Phineas scolds, striding over quickly.

Must be because of his long legs, Arthur thinks as he steps back to allow Phineas inside the house. He closes the door and locks it behind Phineas, then leads him into the living room.

"You took a long time to come back," Arthur says, climbing back onto the couch and pulling weakly at the blanket to resettle it around himself.

"I was busy," Phineas says, reaching over to tuck Arthur in snugly. "Time moves differently here. It's been years for you, but a matter of months in the House."

Arthur frowns, trying to make sense of the statement. He gives up after a few seconds; he's not feeling well enough to figure it out. "The House where you're the..." He remembers that Phineas didn't like being called a gardener. "Where the Incompable Gardens are?"

"_Incomparable _Gardens, yes."

"Incomparable Gardens," Arthur repeats dutifully. As soon as he finishes, he feels like he's going to throw up. Phineas helps him untangle himself from the blanket, just in time for Arthur to grab the bucket Emily set beside him before leaving for work that morning.

"You're sick. Why aren't you in a hospital?" Phineas asks, disapproving, once Arthur is finished. He hands Arthur a handkerchief that, after he is finished wiping his mouth with it, Arthur realizes must be from Phineas' pocket.

"It's just a stomach bug," Arthur mumbles, dabbing at his forehead with the clean part of the hankie.

Phineas sniffs. It's a very disagreeable sort of a sniff; Arthur somehow doubts that Phineas has a cold or something.

"Sorry about your hankie," Arthur says. "It's dirty now."

Phineas waves his hand dismissively. "I was under the impression that influenza was a serious illness," he says.

Arthur frowns, pausing in the act of tugging the blanket back onto his shoulders as he remembers what Bob and Emily told him about his birth parents. "It is."

"You have the flu," Phineas says.

"Oh, no. It's different," Arthur explains. "Influenza epidemics are very serious, but what people usually call 'the flu' is just a seasonal bug."

Phineas frowns. "I see."

Like last time, Arthur kind of doubts whether Phineas really sees or not. "Is that why you came? You thought I was sick. Really sick, I mean."

"Yes," Phineas agrees. "Your record..." He stops, like he shouldn't have said that.

"Like a music record? I'm composing a song for Bob and Emily. They're my adopted parents. But I haven't actually made any music yet," Arthur says.

"It is similar. But it is a record of events, not music," Phineas says.

"So it's a record of my life?" That sounds kind of interesting. Maybe a little weird too. "My record said I had the flu and that's how you knew?"

"Yes, to both."

"Can I see it? Are there more records in the House?" Arthur asks, his illness momentarily forgotten in light of this new mystery.

"There are, but not in the Incomparable Gardens," Phineas says. "And even were I to show it you, you would not be able to read anything. The mortal that is being recorded cannot read their own record."

"Lame." Arthur pouts. "But, I just remembered! I wanted to ask what you grow in the Incomparable Gardens. You don't really dress like, uh, someone who works in a garden." Phineas' clothes are more like the things the lawyers that Arthur sees on tv would wear.

"All manner of living things," Phineas says mysteriously. "I am the overseer of the Gardens, if you will. The menial tasks of scrabbling in the dirt are beneath me. Hence my attire."

Arthur nods. "I guess that makes sense. You do seem important."

"I am the most important being in the House," Phineas agrees. A weird expression crosses his face after that, but he doesn't say anything else.

"Oh." Arthur looks back at the tv, but the show he was watching earlier has ended and he has no idea what's happening now. "Is it ok for you to leave to come see me?"

"The Incomparable Gardens do not require my constant attention."

"Ok, well, thanks for coming to see me," Arthur says. "Are you, um, hungry? Or thirsty. We have some stuff in the fridge if you are." That's what hosts should do, offer their guests something to eat. Or drink.

"No thank you," Phineas says. Then he pulls out what Arthur mistakes for a bar of soap. "I can remove your illness, if you'd like. That is what I initially came to do."

"Washing won't really help," Arthur says cautiously.

Sunday blinks. "Washing?"

"Isn't that soap?"

"Ah. No. It is a bar of sorcerous marble. I will bind your illness to it."

Now it's Arthur's turn to nod and go, "I see," when really he doesn't get it at all.

"This should not be too uncomfortable..." Phineas has a small gold object in his other hand. It catches the light and blinds Arthur for a second before the churning in his stomach and the fog around his mind abruptly clear.

Arthur shakes his head, disoriented. "That was fast." His throat no longer hurts, and the muscles of his torso aren't sore anymore either.

"Indeed." Phineas holds the bar of... _sorcerous marble_ up for Arthur to see. Strange characters have been engraved on it, but after a moment he sees that they read something like 'Earth Flu, Grade A'.

"Wow," Arthur says. "So what's that fo-"

A harsh shrill suddenly sounds through the room. It sounds like one of those old telephones that Arthur sometimes sees on tv.

"Excuse me," Phineas says, pocketing Arthur's flu. A shiny red old-style telephone appears out of thin air. "Sunday," he says into the receiver.

Arthur blinks, realizing that it is, indeed, Sunday today.

Phineas is talking too fast for Arthur to make sense of the words. He isn't even sure if they're in English. It's rude to listen to other people's conversations, Arthur decides once he realizes that understanding it is impossible, and turns his attention to the tv.

"I have to go, Arthur," Phineas says after he hangs up. The phone disappears the moment he releases it.

"Ok," Arthur says, trying not to be disappointed. Phineas did say he was the most important person in the House. "Thanks for taking away my flu."

Phineas nods. "It was nothing. Are there stairs in your dwelling?"

It takes Arthur a second to realize that Phineas means his house. "Uh, yeah. Down the hall." He points.

"Until next time, Arthur," Phineas says, rising from the couch. He disappears down the hall, though Arthur can still hear his footsteps. Then those too disappear.

Arthur jumps to his feet and runs down the hall, but Phineas is gone.

But there will be a next time, Arthur reminds himself. Phineas is interesting and kind of weird, but he's obviously not bad. He took away Arthur's flu. He should probably ask if Phineas can do the same for his asthma next time.


	6. an argument between friends

CloudyFenrir - Thank you for your kind words of support! It's nice to know someone is reading this and enjoying it. :)

* * *

Arthur wakes up, disoriented. He's surrounded by familiar walls, but they're not what he expected to see. There's a steady beeping, though as Arthur listens the tempo increases, then slows down as his heart rate calms.

He's in the hospital. Although he's never actually been in the East Area Hospital before, all hospital rooms tend to look the same. He should know; he's been in enough of them.

The last thing he remembers is an asthma attack; he must have passed out. Rather than getting used to the limitations his lungs placed on him as he grew older, Arthur has come to chafe under these restrictions. It's frustrating to be forced to sit on the sidelines while his classmates and friends run around without him.

And now he doesn't even have any friends, because his family moved to a new city.

"Arthur."

He flinches in surprise, his eyes immediately drawn to Phineas. As usual, the man should look awkward, folded uncomfortably into a too-small chair next to Arthur's bed, but he somehow manages to look dignified all the same.

"Phineas," Arthur says, smiling. His throat is a little dry, but not unbearable. He reaches for the cup of water at his side and takes a few sips.

"You're getting reckless," Phineas says. Rather than the stoic expression he usually has, Phineas looks grave... almost worried. He's been to see Arthur a handful of times, at least once a year (and always on a Sunday, oddly enough) since he took away Arthur's flu. However, none of the intervening visits have been to relieve Arthur of any sickness. And he's explained that he can't rid Arthur of his asthma, because the effects could be (in his words) 'inimical'.

Some of the language Phineas uses is actually ridiculous, but Arthur kind of enjoys looking the unknown words up in the dictionary afterward.

"It's not wrong to want to do everything normal kids my age do," Arthur retorts.

"Maybe not, but you have to understand the risks," Phineas says. "Your asthma is no joke."

Arthur scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. Or trying to; the iv in his right arm makes it difficult. "I still don't see why you can just get rid of it like you did the flu that one time," he mutters. He's being childish; he should be trying to get as much information about the House from Phineas as possible, but he's tired and a little shaken.

"I've told you," Phineas says patiently. "The effects could be-"

"-inimical, I know. But worse than my asthma?"

"Your asthma only affects you when you push yourself. The side effects of removing it might well be permanently debilitating."

"_Could _be, _might _be," Arthur repeats bitterly.

"The presence of people like me in your world often causes illnesses. Plagues. Disasters. The same can be said for any sorcery, no matter how careful the caster is," Phineas says.

"So, what, you just infect people or... or cause an earthquake whenever you visit me?!"

"My presence is not the same, because-" Phineas stops, taking a moment to visibly calm himself.

"Because why?" Arthur presses, leaning forward.

"Because I was once mortal." Phineas looks upset to admit it.

Arthur's eyes widen. "Then does that mean I could-"

"-no, Arthur."

"Why not?" he demands angrily. Aside from probably being inconveniently tall, Arthur can't see anything wrong with being a... whatever Phineas is. He doesn't actually know, now that he thinks of it. He'd always just assumed Phineas was an especially tall man with an eccentric personality and teleportation powers, but in hindsight Phineas has never pretended to be human. The whole teleporting thing ought to have given it away.

"You would have to leave your family behind. Even my stays must be kept brief, to prevent any contamination of Earth."

Arthur flinches. He hadn't thought of that. Well, why would he have? It's not like Phineas ever explains anything beyond the bare details unless Arthur presses him. "So is that what the side effect would be? I'd become like you, I'd cause epidemics just by existing?"

"The exposure to the power of my Key would not be sufficient to make such drastic changes. You might just end up deformed."

Arthur barely hears Phineas' reply, too distracted by what he had just uttered. _Epidemics_. "The influenza epidemic from when I was born- was that because of _you_?"

Phineas blinks, clearly taken aback by the accusation. "I shouldn't think so. The first time I visited Earth in millennia was when you in that store-"

"-maybe not _you_. But someone _like_ you," Arthur says impatiently.

"No; interference in the Secondary Realms (including Earth) is forbidden."

"But you're interfering right now!" Arthur's not sure if that's the case, but he's pretty sure that leaving the House to visit some asthmatic kid has got to count.

Phineas stiffens. "If that is how you feel, I will not return."

"Fine!" Arthur shouts. He's dimly aware that his heart rate is spiking wildly, and his breath is coming in short pants. He's nearly wheezing, but he can't bring himself to care. "You probably lied to me about everything anyway!"

"I have never lied to you," Phineas says, his tone low and furious. It's the first time that Arthur has ever seen him get angry.

"Yeah, you just follow whatever rules are convenient at the time, _Sunday_."

Phineas stands so abruptly that the chair is thrown against the wall; it rebounds and clatters to the floor. "That is enough. I will not be lectured by some _mortal_." He spits the last word like a curse, and before Arthur can reply, he steps into space and simply disappears.

Arthur slumps back against the pillows, tears of anger leaking down his cheeks. It's a struggle to breathe, and he can't tell if it's from the asthma or his frustrated sobs.


	7. first meeting ii

and now for a short peek into Sunday's mind. takes place after first meeting i.

* * *

Sunday is envious.

He holds the Seventh Key, he tends the Incomparable Gardens and he is the eldest son of the Architect. Why, then, is he not the Rightful Heir? He was mortal, as all Heirs are. Sunday, unlike the ignorant mortals his Mother would have rule the House, has the knowledge and the experience to do so. His Demesne is foremost; it contains the origin of the universe. In his eyes, there is no one better qualified to succeed the Architect.

Sunday had ventured to Earth in an attempt to see through his Mother's eyes, as it were. Sunday had lived a lifetime among mortals before entering the House but there was nothing remarkable about them. Why, then, did the Architect designate that a mortal should be the Rightful Heir?

The humans of Earth are the same as the mortals from Sunday's own Secondary Realm. Shallow, selfish, scrabbling for their own temporary happiness at the expense of others'. Unable to see that the future they are racing toward only ends in ruin after they drain their planet's resources.

And yet, Sunday finds himself surprised when a small child approaches him, only to be dragged away by his mother a few moments later.

"Arthur Penhaligon," Sunday repeats, committing the name to memory. He continues staring in the boy's direction long after he and his mother have disappeared into the crowd at the department store.

He supposes it is strange that a mere child should see through the illusions cloaking his presence, but that does not explain why the Architect saw fit to decree that only mortals could be her Rightful Heir.


	8. a meeting of Trustees

"The Architect wanted a mortal because it wouldn't ask questions," Monday says; it's harder than it should be to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Even the lowest Denizen would question destroying the entire House. Besides which, Denizens do not have the capacity to create. The Rightful Heir would assume the role of Architect, including the responsibilities of creating existence."

Sunday blinks. "I see. That does make sense. I was so busy thinking about all the reasons I was better qualified that I forgot to consider what qualities mortals inherently possess."

Monday resists the urge to smash his head against his desk. Breaking the furniture is unacceptable; with the backlog of orders to the Far Reaches, he would probably have to wait another ten thousand years for a replacement. (Merely thinking about the disaster that is Tuesday's Demesne gives him a headache, so Monday tries to avoid doing so whenever possible.)

"Was there any particular reason you wanted to speak with me, Lord Sunday-" Monday is frankly impressed that he manages not to put sarcastic emphasis on Sunday's title here, "-or did you merely wish to inquire about the Will."

"To be quite frank, you were my last resort. Saturday is too obsessed with mortal experience, Friday has simply lost it... The less said about Thursday the better. Wednesday's off who knows where, looting and pillaging. And Tuesday probably couldn't be bothered to wake up long enough to exchange greetings, much less hold a decent conversation," Sunday explains blithely.

"I'm flattered," Monday mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Sunday nods, accepting this as his due.

"So, this Heir," Monday says distractedly. It would be a bad idea to break this desk with his face. He _likes_ this desk. There are not enough desks in the Lower House to go around needlessly wrecking them. "You had someone in mind?" He picks up his forgotten teacup, warming it with a thought, and takes a sip.

"Yes; Arthur Penhaligon."

Monday spits his tea everywhere.


	9. a different meeting of Trustees

"Arthur Penhaligon?" Friday repeats, drawing the syllables of the name out as if to taste them. "Why this sudden interest in inferior mortals, Sunday?"

Sunday shrugs. He can't explain it himself, really. But he finds himself dwelling on his brief meeting with the strange little boy quite often of late. It has been a month (not that long, when one considers that the Architect has been gone for millennia) but that is a long time to think about a mere mortal.

"Curiosity," he says. "I ventured into the Secondary Realms and the one known as Arthur Penhaligon... saw me. I was not hidden as well as I could have been, but he saw through various layers of cloaking nevertheless."

"It is likely nothing worth noting," Friday remarks, seemingly indifferent. Her moods are mercurial since the breaking of the Will, and her temper has only worsened in the intervening millennia. "Some mortals possess the ability to see through House illusions. A side effect, perhaps, of the inimical presence of a Denizen of the House."

"Nevertheless, I would like to see the record," Sunday says, ignoring her pointed look.

"Very well." Friday raises the mirror that is the Fifth Key and turns to gaze into it. "Noon. Attend me."

A few moments later, Sunday hears frantic footsteps in the hall beyond Friday's office. They slow, fading to a sedate walk, and Friday's Noon enters without so much as a hair out of place.

"Lady Friday," Noon says, bowing deeply, more than the situation requires. Sunday blinks when he sees the edge of a bruise beneath Noon's collar. The Middle House is not particularly close to Nothing, there ought to be no random Nithlings bubbling up; there should be no reason for Noon to be wounded. It takes a lot to hurt a Denizen, and this is doubly true for someone of Noon's rank. "How may I be of service?"

"Sunday wants to see a record. Show him to it," Friday says dismissively.

Noon's gaze flicks to Sunday. "Lord Sunday." The second bow is not a centimetre too deep. It would rankle, if Sunday was not a visitor to Friday's domain. "If you would follow me-"

"I don't want you helping Sunday to sneak around my Demesne!" Friday bursts out. Her beautiful face is terrible in its fury as she stalks around the desk towards her subordinate.

Noon flinches, fear chased by resignation across his face.

"Had I any intention of sneaking, I would not have asked your permission for entrance," Sunday interrupts, incensed. The Seventh Key is paramount; he has nothing to fear even in Friday's domain, so he steps between his fellow Trustee and Noon without giving it any thought.

Friday snarls at him; the mirror's surface flashes in reaction, and the air seems to grow heavier. "You seem to have forgotten our compact," she says. "You've decided to reunite the Will, haven't you! Why else would you ask after the record of a Rightful Heir."

Sunday blinks, taking an involuntary step back at the utterly unexpected accusation. "I did not know he was a Rightful Heir," Sunday says, widening his stance in case Friday intends to attack him as her attitude and bearing would suggest. Friday is not a fighter; but neither is Sunday, when it comes down to that.

Friday studies him, though her eyes seem less furious. "You seem honest," she remarks, her posture relaxing. "Noon, show him to the room where the records of all Rightful Heirs are held."

"At once, milady," Noon says. "Lord Sunday-?"

Friday has already turned back to her desk, apparently ignoring the exchange.

"After you," Sunday says, falling into step beside the Time as he is led out of the office.


	10. the records of the Rightful Heirs

"Pardon me, milord, but was there a record in particular that you were searching for?" Noon asks, opening the door to the room right next to Friday's office.

Sunday resists the urge to roll his eyes; Friday could have just directed him to the room herself, without summoning her Noon to do so.

"Arthur Penhaligon," Sunday says. The room is vast, numerous shelves stretching as far as he can see from a brief glance. All of them are full of scrolls, records of mortal lives. "These are all Rightful Heirs?"

"Of course, milord," Noon says. "Those still living, of course. Defunct records are sent to the Lower House for archiving. From which Secondary Realm does this Penhaligon hail?"

"Earth," Sunday says distractedly. So many potential Heirs. Perhaps the odds of Sunday running into one on a random trip to Earth were not as astronomical as he'd thought.

"Those records are kept this way."

Sunday follows Noon through the shelves, hardly aware of the much short Denizens who are bustling about the shelves, adding or removing records seemingly at random. They all pause in their work and bow when Sunday and Noon pass.

"The records are ordered chronologically. It makes it easier to remove defunct records; usually the records end when the mortal in question is older," Noon explains, gesturing at a row of shelves that looks identical to all the others.

"Arthur Penhaligon is quite young," Sunday says, peering at the closest shelf. The scrolls unroll when Sunday focuses his attention on them. Much too old, Sunday notes. "If you have other duties to attend to, I can locate the record myself," he adds.

Noon clears his throat, adjusting his monocle in a manner that Sunday can only describe as self-conscious when Sunday looks at him. "I will aid you, milord, if you have no objections."

Doubtless he has no wish to incur Friday's wrath by allowing Sunday out of his sight in case Sunday does intend to sneak about. "Very well; it will go faster with two sets of eyes," Sunday agrees.

Noon bows his head and begins perusing the lower shelves.

"I was unaware that the records for Rightful Heirs were stored separately from other records," Sunday remarks after several minutes of searching.

"The practice began perhaps two thousand years ago," Noon explains, though he does not elaborate upon the reasons for this change.

Another symptom of Friday's wrath? Sunday wonders.

"Ah, here it is, milord." Noon holds up the scroll. "Shall I have a copy made for your perusal?"

"Yes, if you would."

Noon bows and disappears into the stacks.


	11. musings

"Lady Friday bade me inform you that she awaits your presence for a light meal in the tearoom," a Denizen tells Sunday when he emerges from the record chamber. There is no change in her tone and the words are uttered all in one breath.

"I will be there in a moment," Sunday says, feeling a flicker of irritation. Now that his business is concluded and he has acquired (a copy of) Arthur Penhaligon's record, Sunday has no wish to stay in the Middle House. He certainly does not wish to spend any of the time he wastes here in the presence of the Demesne's mercurial mistress.

The unknown Denizen bows and hurries off, leaving Sunday alone in the hall.

It is strange, Sunday muses. These halls, while not necessarily loud, were always full of Denizens going about their business before the Will was broken. But as he travelled closer to Friday's office in the Scriptorium, the area became more and more deserted.

"Milord," Noon says, drawing Sunday from his thoughts of the past; there is a strange note to his otherwise smooth tone, but Sunday cannot decipher it. "Perhaps you should retain the master record for, ah... safekeeping." Without waiting for a reply, Noon shoves the scroll into Sunday's hand and then pretends as if he has done no such thing. "I will escort you to the tearoom, if you have concluded your business with the records, Lord Sunday," he says, more loudly.

Sunday blinks, but does not hesitate to slip the scroll into his pocket alongside its copy; Noon's shoulders relax infinitesimally.

"I would appreciate that, Noon," Sunday says, although he can perfectly recall the way to the tearoom.

Something is not right in the Middle House, thinks Sunday as he follows Noon through the Scriptorium.

The Incomparable Gardens remain perfectly tended, of course; and by all accounts the Lower House is operating without interruption as well. But the Border Sea expands ever outward, connecting with the waters of various Secondary Realms far more frequently than is necessary, and the backlog of orders for the Far Reaches must be enormous at this point. Sunday has taken to conjuring the necessities from Nothing himself.

Something is not right with the entirety of the House, Sunday amends; not just a single part of it.


	12. teatime

"Did you find the record you were seeking?" Friday inquires. Dusk stands beside their table in the otherwise deserted tearoom, ready to serve.

"Yes," Sunday agrees, before busying himself with the slice of cake placed before him.

Friday takes a delicate sip of her tea, then sets it back on the saucer. "I trust Noon's behaviour was satisfactory?"

"Naturally," Sunday says. "I appreciate you interrupting your day to humour me."

Friday inclines her head. "I am sure you would do the same for me."

Sunday supposes he must, now; this request to view a mortal's record is highly irregular. Although he is her superior, Friday would have been well within her rights to refuse him.

Not that Friday would have any reason to visit the Incomparable Gardens, Sunday consoles himself.

"This is excellent tea," Sunday says politely. Some brew from the Secondary Realms, no doubt. Contraband from the mortal worlds is readily available, courtesy of Lady Wednesday; assuming, of course, that one is willing to pay the exorbitant price. Sunday himself prefers to ask Saturday to acquire items on his behalf during her forays into the Secondary Realms - it's far cheaper, although whether Saturday remembers to actually get the objects he desires is another matter.

"Derived from the leaf of some mortal realm," Friday says carelessly. The winged brooch hanging from her throat twitches, light reflecting off the otherwise dull metal surface. Friday's eyes narrow as the dainty dessert fork crumples in her fingers.

"Inferior metal," Friday opines distastefully, tossing it aside. Almost before it hits the ground, her Dusk is placing another beside her plate. "This delay in receipt of goods from the Far Reaches is vexing."

"I understand that Grim Tuesday's subordinates are working diligently," Sunday says.

"Things would improve if the Grim himself deigned to produce objects from Nothing," Friday retorts.

"It is not for us to impugn the administration of our fellow Trustees."

Friday's mouth quirks up, a mirthless twist of the lips. "Indeed, Lord Sunday."

The rest of the meal passes in much more mundane (and harmless) small talk. Even so, by the time the hour is up, Sunday finds himself nearly fidgeting with impatience.

"Ah, Lord Sunday," Friday murmurs. He ought to know by now that a tone so sweet can only be hiding poison; but for a moment Sunday remembers how Friday was before the Will was broken.

"Lady Friday?" Sunday lowers his Key, allowing the set of imaginary stairs he'd been about to sketch fade from his mind.

"I trust you had a copy made of your mortal's record."

Sunday is about to protest; the boy he met once is hardly _his_, and surely now that he will know the details of Arthur's life, his interest in the human will fade.

Friday continues speaking without waiting for his reply, however. "I destroy the records in that chamber when I am feeling particularly out of sorts; I find my mood much refreshed afterwards."

Dusk's eyes remain downcast; clearly he is unsurprised by this news.

Sunday doesn't know what to say. The remark is so unexpected that he is speechless.

"I do not take kindly to these _interruptions_ as you termed it. But I have not destroyed the records in many years... There must be enough now to satisfy me for a very long time." She smiles, gives a mocking sort of curtsey, and leaves him. Dusk follows at her heels, just beyond arm's reach.

Sunday stands in the middle of the otherwise empty tearoom, one hand holding the Seventh Key, the other wrapped around the record in his pocket.


	13. disappearances explained

Monday frowns; there is a definite throbbing at his temples now. Perhaps he ought to expand his list of headache-inducing thoughts to include anything to do with his fellow Trustees.

"Allow me to recap," he says, grinding the tips of his first two fingers against his temple. "Friday has been _destroying_ the records of all Rightful Heirs for at least _two millennia_. She did so recently, not long after you visited a young Arthur Penhaligon on the Secondary Realm known as Earth."

"I did not visit him. He found me. Although," Sunday amends, wearing an expression that on a lesser man would have looked shamefaced, "the subsequent trips I made to Earth were for the express purpose of visiting him, yes."

"_Subsequent_-" Monday inhales sharply, stopping himself. "Then, by virtue of his record being the only one to escape Friday's wrath, Arthur Penhaligon is the only Rightful Heir of whom the House is aware?"

"I imagine others were born in the meantime," Sunday says. "Some may even be older, depending on how their Secondary Realm's time flows in comparison to Earth's."

"Of course," Monday mutters. "But the record was with you. How, then, did the Will (my portion of it) acquire a copy?"

Sunday blinks. "Is it not obvious?"

"Humour me," Monday grits out.

"Master, if I may..." Dusk had been standing unobtrusively to the side, allowing his superiors to speak unimpeded.

Monday glances at him. "Speak."

"The sorting of the day's mail falls within my purview. I found the copy of Penhaligon's record and ensured it found its way to the Will's attention."

"I wondered how the Will gained access to your mail," Sunday remarks. "In fact, I was disgruntled by your lack of reply to my overtures. I would have expected it from anyone else but you, Monday. That is why I decided to visit in person. Naturally I was quite surprised when you told me about the breach of security."

Dusk bows. "My apologies, master."

"Is there any other information concerning the Will that you have been withholding?" Monday demands.

"No, master."

Monday scowls and drums the fingers of his left hand against the desk. "Where is your mortal now?" he asks at last. "He was fated to die on a Monday, but when I went to Earth at the time of his death, he was not there."

"I brought him into the House the day before," Sunday says. "I have grown attached to Arthur, notwithstanding our unfortunate argument. I could not stand the thought of his existence disappearing."

"Of course you did," Monday says. He doesn't know why he bothers being surprised.


	14. a conversation with a Piper's Child

There were no Piper's Children from the Incomparable Gardens, as far as I remember, hence the OC.

* * *

"You seem out of sorts, master," the Grower says carefully.

Sunday scowls. He is aware of that fact. Generally, the sight of his well-maintained Demesne from dragon(fly)-back is enough to soothe his bad moods, but it is not doing the trick now.

Arthur's accusations are ringing in his ears, all the more bothersome for the grain of truth within them. He should never have given Arthur his mortal name. Where it had once pleased Sunday to hear someone call him Phineas, the feeling has soured.

"Bring me the highest ranked Piper's Child," Sunday says abruptly. "I would meet with them on the second terrace."

The Grower is too disciplined to betray any of the surprise he must be feeling. "At once." His greenish wings unfold and he flies off.

* * *

"What is your name?"

"Cathy Mudmucker, Gardener First Class, 12,372nd in precedence, Your Incomparable Lordship." Cathy gives a curtsey, or attempts to until she remembers the practical overalls that she is wearing, at which point she tries to turn it into a strange, wobbling bow.

"Milord or Lord Sunday will do, Cathy," Sunday says. At least she is exhibiting the correct amount of awe and respect, even if her attempts are fumbling. She understands what an honour it is to be in his presence. "I will ask that anything and everything that we discuss here does not leave this terrace."

Cathy glances around; the second terrace is likely far higher than she has ever been. There is only the first terrace, and the Elysium, above. "Of course, Lord Sunday. It would be my honour."

Sunday nods. "Your memories of your life on Earth, are they clear?"

"Yes, milord."

Sunday had been hoping that would be the case. Unlike the rest of the Piper's Children in the House, those in the Incomparable Gardens have never been washed between the ears. Saturday's Bathroom Attendants are not welcome. The only outside Denizens that Sunday allows to visit are his fellow Trustees and even then he prefers to go to their Demesnes rather than meeting in the Gardens.

"If you were afflicted by a, hm, serious illness, but it only acted it up when you exerted yourself physically, how upset would you be if someone had the ability to remove it and refused to do so because they feared the side effects of removal could be worse."

Cathy mulls that over for a few moments. "That's a mighty specific question, milord," she says at last.

"It is a hypothetical situation," Sunday says with as much dignity as he can muster, which is to say quite a lot.

The look Cathy gives him is nearly identical to one that Sunday has seen on Arthur; it says, plain as day, that the child in question is not remotely fooled. "Hypothetically speaking, Lord Sunday, I imagine I would be hypothetically displeased about hypothetical side effects _possibly_ (that is to say, _hypothetically_) being worse than the actual hypothetical illness. After all, there is a hypothetical chance that these side effects could be a minor hypothetical inconvenience compared to the illness itself."

"I see," Sunday says, discouraged. What is it with mortals (or former mortals, in Cathy's case)? If they just thought about it, they would see that Sunday's approach is the logical choice. Interference is forbidden, Sunday is already toeing the line by visiting Arthur. To be more accurate, he is already crossing it, blazing right over without a thought. To do any more would be...

("You just follow whatever rules are convenient at the time, _Sunday_.")

He winces in remembrance of Arthur's words. "Nevertheless, would you not see reason if you thought about it further?"

"Perhaps I might," Cathy says. "I imagine my hypothetical self might be angry at first though."

"But surely you would reason that m- the other person's actions stemmed from a wish for your own well-being."

"Hm..." Cathy looks thoughtful, and a slightly awkward silence falls as she considers this. "So, this hypothetical mortal-"

"-I did not say he was a mortal."

Cathy gives him that look again. "My apologies, milord. I assumed the person I was hypothetically representing was a mortal because he was ill. Denizens of the House can't get sick."

"A reasonable assumption," Sunday allows. "I suppose it does fit this hypothetical thought exercise."

Cathy coughs and busies herself with the tea the Sower had set earlier. "So, this hypothetical mortal. How bad is his hypothetical illness?"

"I suppose you could consider it a disease of the lungs. It impedes his breathing when he exerts himself, to the point that suffocation is a very real possibility."

"What an unpleasant hypothetical disease," Cathy murmurs, delicately sipping at her tea.

"Quite," Sunday mutters, feeling disgruntled for no reason that he can discern.

"Lord Sunday, far be it from me to begin fathoming the depths of your intellect and wisdom," Cathy begins. Though her words are complimentary, Sunday finds himself dissatisfied, but he does wish to hear what she has to say. "If I was (hypothetically of course) a mortal boy, I'm sure I would be honoured to have made your acquaintance. Being a mere mortal and not knowing any better, I would probably question your decision not to heal my illness, and that might make me, ah, cranky, but I'm sure that I would come to regret any words uttered in anger."

"I see. That will be all, Cathy. The Sower can escort you back to your Bed once you have finished your tea," Sunday says, rising.

"Thank you, milord," Cathy says, standing as well so that she can bow to him. "It was my honour to have this hypothetical conversation."


	15. resolution

Sunday goes up to the Elysium. He is alone, but for the seventh portion of the Will in its cage.

_You seem troubled, Sunday_.

It has been a long time since the Will spoke to him; he usually devotes some of the Seventh Key's power to keeping it silent. Apparently his concentration has slipped enough for the Will to speak directly to his mind. This, more than anything (including the Grower's careful comments and the decidedly unusual conversation with a mere Piper's Child that Sunday had chosen to initiate) is an indication of his distraction.

Sunday's thoughts continue to dwell on the subject of Arthur with disconcerting frequency.

_A Rightful Heir?_ The Will's sarcastic tone fades, replaced with very real interest. _You have been seeing a Rightful Heir_.

Sunday feels a surge of irritation; does it matter if he has or not? He is not bound by the Will; he has not even unduly interfered, beyond easing Arthur's sickness that one time. (In hindsight, it was a mistake, culminating in that last disastrous conversation; perhaps there is some grain of wisdom in the Original Law.)

_You have grown attached to the mortal_, the Will observes.

Sunday casts a glare at the caged apple tree. "I have not," he says aloud, but even as he utters the words he knows them to be a lie.

_Undoubtedly he would have grown attached to you in equal measure. So it is just as well that you have no intention of appointing him as the Rightful Heir_, the Will says slyly.

Sunday is abruptly done with the conversation. He loathes reminders of his own unsuitability to the task. His fingers brush the key hanging around his neck. Silence the Will, he thinks; and the Will is silent.

Sunday looks over his Gardens, but the sight does not soothe him. The leaves of the apple tree rustle in a nonexistent breeze, but the Will does not make any further attempts to speak with him. Touching the bars of the cage might not end it, but the Will would certainly be greatly damaged by the attempt.

To be honest, Sunday had forgotten that Arthur is a Rightful Heir. Now the Will's words linger in his mind. Would it be possible to circumvent the Will? The clauses only specify that a Rightful Heir must be chosen, not that the Heir must fulfill the clauses.

Sunday is loathe to so much as consider relinquishing the Seventh Key, even temporarily. Wielding the paramount Key might be too great a responsibility, he reasons. Arthur should probably start small. Any of the other Trustees' Keys will do. Who, then, to consult?

Sunday pulls out the copy of Arthur's record. He folds it into an envelope, addresses it to the Trustee he deems most likely to be reasonable, seals it with the Key and sends it off with a flick of his wrist.

Satisfied, Sunday looks at the slightly rumpled scroll that he has kept on his person since Friday's Noon shoved it into his hands more than a decade ago. It is self-updating, the parchment lengthening as necessary to hold all the important details of a mortal's life.

He blinks when he sees that another event has been recorded. Arthur's life is not terribly eventful, but-

_11:09 on Monday, September 23rd, 20xx AD [Earth time]: fatal asthma attack_.


	16. apologies exchanged

The Improbable Stair usually leads Sunday to at least one unintended Landing before he reaches his destination, but this time it brings him straight to Arthur after less than twenty steps.

Thankfully time is fluid between the Secondary and the House; a year on Earth can pass in the span of a few minutes of House time, or vice versa. Likewise, so long as he is not working in opposition of another Morrow Day (and even then Sunday imagines that, by virtue of the Seventh Key being paramount, he would emerge victorious) Sunday can exert his influence to regress time, at least enough to arrive twelve hours before Arthur's apparent death.

The digital clock on Arthur's nightstand switches to 11:10 as Sunday steps into the room.

"Phineas!" Arthur drops the book he'd been reading. "I didn't think you were coming back..."

"Nor did I," Sunday confesses. He has never lied to Arthur, and he is not about to start either.

Arthur draws his legs closer to his body, leaving Sunday ample room to sit on the bed. "You can sit down, if you want," he says.

The mattress dips beneath Sunday's frame as he accepts the invitation. There is a careful distance between them, nothing like the comfortable proximity that they had known before.

"I may have spoken rashly-"

"Look, Phineas, I didn't mean-"

They speak at the same time, but stop as soon as they realize.

"You go first."

"After you."

Arthur bites his lip, a habit that he has picked up in the past year or so. Sunday is reasonably certain that the boy is unaware of it.

"Ok. I'll go first... I shouldn't have yelled at you last week. I was frustrated and upset... But I only know things about the House that you've told me, and I should have trusted that you would know whether it was safe to get rid of my asthma or not." Arthur's words come out in a rush. "So... I'm sorry. And I'm glad you decided to visit again, even if you weren't planning on it."

He looks up at Sunday expectantly.

"Apology accepted," Sunday says promptly, glad to have that matter cleared up.

"Uh, what were you saying about speaking rashly before?"

Sunday coughs. "I may have spoken rashly last Sunday as well. Your accusations were not unfounded, and I was displeased to be confronted with the truth. I... apologize... for shouting at you. It was uncalled for."

Arthur nods. "Well, I'm happy that that's settled. I was starting to think you were really mad... You only come on Sundays, so I thought you might visit today. But it was getting late..."

Sunday glances at the clock. It's already 11:30. 11:31, he amends as the minute switches over again. Arthur has recalled him to the purpose of his visit; he does not have much time.

"I have come to take you to the House," Sunday says.

Which is not what he had intended to say, but he finds that it is not inaccurate.

Arthur stares at him blankly for several long moments. "What? Like to become a... whatever you are?"

"The correct term is Denizen, but yes."

"But then I can't visit my family," Arthur protests. "And, no, I mean... I don't want to spend most of my time away from my family anyway!"

"You need not become a Denizen to visit the House, but it would be better," Sunday says.

Arthur frowns. "Well... ok. But why the sudden change of heart?"

"You're going to die tomorrow," Sunday says. "As you have surmised, I can only visit on Sundays, so-"

Arthur clearly is not listening to anything after Sunday announces his imminent death. "I'm going to _what_?!"

"Die," Sunday says, with a hint of impatience. He is here to avoid that undesirable outcome; why is Arthur being so difficult about it?

"From what."

In retrospect, Sunday ought to have realized that the flat tone was not a sign of calm, but rather cold anger. "An asthma attack."

"Great, then _why_ can't you get rid of my asthma!?" Arthur demands. "I think we can both agree that any side effects would be preferable _to death_."

"But there is more that I want to discuss," Sunday says. "As I've said before, time moves differently between the House and the Secondary Realms. We can speak in the House, and I promise you will be returned with no one the wiser should that be your wish." Sunday feels uneasy about misrepresenting the truth to Arthur; he has no intention of allowing Arthur to return to Earth, but he's sure that Arthur will have no wish to do so once Sunday explains about the Will and the fact that he is a Rightful Heir.

Arthur narrows his eyes. "Do you promise, Phineas?"

Sunday suppresses the urge to wince. "Yes."

"Promise that you'll let me come back if I want to. And I won't become a Denizen."

"... Yes."

"Yes, you promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

Arthur was much more cooperative when he believed everything Sunday had to say, Sunday muses.

"... Ok. Let's go, then," Arthur says. "Should I change?"

"It is not necessary. I will provide appropriate attire in the House."

Arthur looks at Sunday's clothes (the height of House fashion) with obvious distrust.

"Well, all right. So do I need to hold your arm or something, so you can teleport me into the House?"

"Teleport? No, we will enter through the Front Door..." Sunday trails off. It is already 11:50, and he does not know where the House will have manifested. His existence will be forcibly expelled from Earth if he remains after midnight. "Ah, the Improbable Stair, then. In which case, yes, you should hold my arm."


	17. Sunday (finally) relates the plan

CloudyFenrir - thanks again! the feedback makes writing worthwhile, at least for me... :)

* * *

"A Rightful Heir has been in the House for a week?" Monday growls.

"A week of House time, approximately twelve hours of Earth time... yes," Sunday agrees.

"You've already broken your promise, you realize," Monday remarks. "Now that I have ventured to Earth at around 11 in the morning on Monday, it will be impossible to send Arthur back before then."

Sunday does not look as bothered by that prospect as he ought to. "Yes, but it is your fault," he says, clearly pleased by this outcome.

"My fault," Monday repeats.

Sunday nods. "Shall I go get Arthur, then? You should at least meet him before you hand your Key over."

"_Before_- I am _not_ handing my Key over, no matter how highly you value this mortal that you have... adopted."

"Oh," Sunday says, obviously disappointed. "I thought you would be the most reasonable, too..."

Monday closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. It would likely be useless to point out that he is not the one being unreasonable here.

"When you told me that you had brought a Rightful Heir into the House, I did not think you had any intention of helping them gain their inheritance," Monday says. The only reason he has not taken the First Key up against Sunday is because Sunday is the only Trustee who Monday could not defeat in the Lower House.

"I thought it would be obvious after I told you the whole story," Sunday says.

Monday looks pointedly at the key hanging from Sunday's neck. "I see you intend to lead by example."

"Wielding the paramount Key is perhaps too much responsibility at this early juncture," Sunday explains, though he has the grace to look marginally ashamed at being called out on his nonsense.

"Find another Trustee," Monday says. "Though I imagine none of them will be amenable to giving up mastery of their Demesne."

"It would only be temporary," Sunday protests.

Monday narrows his eyes. He has no intention of listening to any more of Sunday's blathering, yet he is intrigued in spite of himself. "Explain."

Sunday seems to brighten, evidently pleased by Monday's cautious interest. "All the Demesnes were once under the administration of the Architect; She made us Regents (_Trustees_) of the individual domains, pending the ascension of a Rightful Heir."

"Yes," Monday says, impatiently. He has not forgotten the clauses of the Will.

"Arthur simply needs to be given the Key and Mastery of the Demesne in question, and the Trustee will have fulfilled their obligation. Arthur will then appoint the Trustee as Regent once more, and the Will will be done. He has little interest in running the House; he was not very impressed when I showed him the Incomparable Gardens." This last part seems to miff Sunday.

Monday supposes that this mortal must not be a terrible choice; the Incomparable Gardens _are_ rather boring, as far as he is concerned. Then he has to be appalled that he has listened to enough of Sunday's nonsense to be seriously considering this plan.

"It seems feasible," Monday says slowly. He cannot forget how easily his portion of the Will escaped, no matter how diligently he guarded it. Of course, it will not have the aid of one of his Times to escape in the future.

"Exactly," Sunday agrees. "The only problem I saw was that the Will had not acknowledged Arthur. Happily, it seems that your portion has."

Monday nods. "Indeed. ... Very well, I will meet with your mortal."


	18. Arthur in the Gardens

"Where," Sunday says, "is Arthur."

The Reaper, who had only met Arthur briefly, looks at the Sower.

The Sower, who was away moving the sun when Sunday left for the Lower House, looks at the Grower.

The Grower, who Sunday had left to supervise Arthur on the fourth terrace, looks rather uncomfortable.

"I left him alone when I went to move the sun, milord. However, I asked Cathy Mudmucker to keep an eye on him in my absence. When I returned, neither of them were in evidence."

Sunday scowls.

* * *

"So you're the one that had His Incomparable Lordship all in a twist," a sly voice says not long after the Grower leaves.

Arthur glances around, but the terrace (the fourth, according to the Grower) is otherwise deserted. Until he catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and realizes that the speaker is wearing clothes that blended in with the greenery.

A girl around his age, with a dirty face and hazel eyes, steps away from the foliage. "I'm Cathy, the head Piper's Child, I guess you could say."

"Arthur," he says, automatically holding his hand out for her to shake.

Cathy eyes it for a minute, then spits in her own and holds it out. Arthur blinks, then spits into his palm and carefully takes her hand. It's as dirt-streaked as the rest of her, but he imagines that probably comes with the tending of the Gardens.

"You the mortal with the unpleasant lung disease?"

"Um, I guess?" Arthur hazards. He doesn't think Phineas knows any other mortals with asthma. Or any other lung diseases, for that matter.

"Not much to look at," Cathy mutters, circling him with a critical expression on her face. "You must be shorter than I am."

"Well, I'm just a mortal. Denizens are the tall ones," Arthur points out. He's a perfectly average height; girls his age have started getting their growth spurts already, that's all.

"Yeah, but you must be important to have Lord Sunday all bothered," Cathy says, walking behind him. Arthur twists around in an attempt to keep her in his sights, but she's faster. "Thought you'd be taller."

"Haven't got my growth spurt yet."

Cathy sends him a look like he's particularly slow. "Did they even _explain_ about the House at all? I mean you were up here with the Grower for a long time. Did you just drink tea and talk about the artificial weather?"

"The Grower was explaining about the different Beds and stuff in the Incomparable Gardens," Arthur says. "... I didn't get most of it, honestly."

Cathy rolls her eyes as she makes her way to the table set in the middle of the terrace. Apparently satisfied with his disappointing appearance, she flops into one of the chairs and starts munching on the food. "Typical. All right, why don't you come with _me_, and we (that is, the Piper's Children) will teach you how the House works."

"Phineas explained about the different Demesnes and the Trustees..."

"Phineas? What kind of name is that," Cathy mutters through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Sunday, I mean. Only when I met him he told me to call him Phineas, so I'm still in the habit of doing that," Arthur explains, surreptitiously wiping away a few crumbs that she'd spit at him. He's not particularly hungry, and hasn't been since entering the House several days ago. Phineas told him that hunger and thirst didn't particularly matter in the House; food and drink were luxuries. Of course, as Phineas' guest, Arthur could indulge all he wanted, but he didn't feel the need.

"Weird. Well, I guess all the Trustees must've had names before they became Morrow Days. Same with the Times, really... Everyone just calls 'em by their titles now." Cathy punctuates this statement by stuffing a muffin into her mouth and standing again. "Right, let's go," she says, pointing towards the stairs.

At least, that's what Arthur thinks she says. It's pretty hard to understand, muffled by the food.

He _does_ want to see the Gardens up close. Seeing them from the back of a dragonfly must be different, he's sure. And Phineas just said that he wasn't supposed to leave the terrace _alone_. Cathy seems all right; kind of weird, but everyone in the House is weird as far as Arthur can tell.

"Ok," Arthur says, following her down the steps. He remembers something that Cathy had said earlier. "So, what's a Piper's Child?"

"He didn't even tell you _that_?" Cathy demands, outraged. "This is worse than I thought."


	19. Chapter 19

thinking of chapter titles is way too hard so yeah I'm going to stop that now oops.

* * *

"I thought I told you not to leave the terrace, Arthur," Sunday says, when he finds the boy in Bed 47, surrounded by numerous Piper's Children.

Most of them seem to melt into the greenery and slink away upon his arrival, rightfully thinking that they would be in trouble if Sunday discovers their identities.

"Oh, hey Phineas," Arthur says. There's a smudge of dirt across his nose and halfway down his right cheek, and the clothes that Phineas had given him when they'd entered the House have been replaced with the dirty (but practical, Phineas must grudgingly admit) overalls and shirt that is an unofficial uniform for the Piper's Children. "Well, actually you said I couldn't leave the terrace alone."

"Semantics," Sunday says impatiently. He casts a glare at Cathy, the only Piper's Child who has not fled. "I will deal with you later."

"Phineas, it's not Cathy's fault. I'm the one who asked her to take me to see the Gardens," Arthur says, stepping in front of her. "It was really great to see them from above, but I wanted to look at them more closely."

Cathy gives Arthur a weird look, but Sunday doesn't bother trying to decipher it.

Sunday frowns at Arthur. "You should have waited for my return."

Arthur nods. "Yeah, but you're the most important person here! I didn't know if it would be ok to pester you with my questions..."

There is some truth in that, Phineas supposes. "Nevertheless, we had best hasten to the Lower House. Monday will not appreciate being kept waiting."

"Going to the Lower House? Better be careful, Arthur. I heard the Piper's Children there get washed between the ears. Or anywhere that's not the Incomparable Gardens," Cathy says.

"You mean behind the ears?" Arthur asks; at the same time, Sunday says, "Of course I would not allow such a thing to befall him, Miss Mudmucker. Kindly return to your duties, Arthur has no further need of your company."

Cathy gives him the disbelieving look again; her bow feels rather insincere, but before Sunday can reprimand her further, the girl disappears like the rest of her compatriots.

"I'm not that dirty..." Arthur looks down at his dirt-encrusted nails and generally disheveled appearance. "Oh, I guess I am. Even behind my ears?"

"There is just a bit of dirt on your face," Sunday says, producing a handkerchief to wipe it away.

"Hey! I can clean myself just fine," Arthur says huffily, stepping away from his hand and snatching the formerly pristine cloth from him. He glances around a few times before hurriedly rubbing at his cheek. If Sunday did not know better, he would think Arthur embarrassed.

"We had better return to the first terrace," Sunday says, frowning faintly. Arthur has never been embarrassed by him before. Perhaps he is ashamed of Cathy's deplorable behaviour? "That is hardly suitable attire for visiting a Trustee."


	20. Chapter 20

Monday does not consider himself an impatient being, but as the minutes drag into hours, he finds himself checking the clock with increasing frequency. At length, he gets up from the desk and begins pacing the office. He pointedly ignores Dusk's attempts to catch his eye; he has no wish to discuss recent events with him.

In fact, the longer that Monday waits, the less certain he is that he made a sound decision when he agreed to meet Sunday's mortal.

He is just passing the door when a series of rapid taps sounds against it. Monday rips the door open, employing more force than he would normally have. Stress, he imagines; he cannot recall the last time he felt ill at ease. Disregarding the brief period that the Will was running amok in the Lower House recently, that is.

A scruffy girl (a Piper's Child, he realizes) tumbles in, hand clutching the doorknob. She staggers to a stop before him and grins up at Monday. "Dusk asked me to inform you when 'Is Lordship (er, that is to say, Lord Sunday) returned, Your Lordship."

Monday glances down the hall, which is deserted for the moment.

"I was watching the elevators, milord. Ran 'ere soon as I saw 'im and the Piper's Child 'e 'ad with 'im disembark," the girl elaborates, correctly interpreting Monday's look.

"Hm, well, thank you," Monday says. He does not, as a general rule, deal with the Piper's Children in the Lower House. However, Dusk claims that they are resourceful and adaptable (qualities sadly lacking in the average Denizen) and as long as they continue to facilitate the maintenance of his Demesne, Monday has no problem with Dusk delegating tasks to them.

"'Course, milord. Will that be all?"

"Indeed. You may resume whatever duties you had before Dusk's request."

The girl looks at Dusk, who has walked closer during their exchange.

"I think Edward is due for a break, do you not?" Dusk remarks. "Perhaps you could relieve him, Miss Turquoise Blue."

The girl sighs; apparently whatever Edward is doing is not a desirable task. "Yes, Dusk." She bows to Monday, though the motion encompasses Dusk as well, and departs.

Monday closes the door again and goes to sit at the desk. The elevators are several minutes away, so Sunday and the mortal could show up at any second. He does not wish to appear to be awaiting their arrival, although that is exactly what he is doing.


	21. Chapter 21

Monday can certainly forgive the girl for mistaking Arthur Penhaligon for a Piper's Child. He is the correct age, after all. But after a second glance, the differences become plain. All the Piper's Children that Monday has seen wear a patchwork assortment of clothes; they have a generally scruffy appearance about them.

Arthur Penhaligon is clad in clothes that rival Monday's own in their finery. The work of Sunday, he assumes. There is a smudge of dirt below his right ear, but otherwise he seems clean. He's gazing at Monday with unashamed curiosity (also in keeping with the generally fearless attitude of Piper's Children) although he seems to be biting his lip subconsciously.

"Ah, yes. Arthur, this is Monday. Monday, this is Arthur."

"It's nice to meet you," Arthur says, holding out a hand.

At least, Monday thinks, he did not spit in it beforehand. Piper's Children have the unfortunate habit of doing so.

"Likewise," he says, taking the boy's hand in his own. Arthur must be average size, but he seems small next to Monday. He is dwarfed by Sunday, of course. They make a strange pair.

"... Please, sit down," Monday adds, gesturing to the two chairs set before his desk.

Arthur sits; Sunday follows suit a moment later. Monday retreats to his own seat.

Sunday is looking at him expectantly, as if the mere act of introducing Monday to the mortal will have swayed Monday into giving over the First Key.

"So you are the Rightful Heir," Monday says, deliberately turning to the boy.

"That's what Phineas tells me," Arthur says.

Monday looks at Sunday, unable to conceal his surprise. "Phineas."

Sunday sniffs. "I thought it prudent to assume a mortal guise while in a mortal realm."

Monday looks back at the Rightful Heir. As far as he is aware, Sunday has avoided all reminders of his mortal life (including his name) since becoming a Trustee. What is it about the boy that causes Sunday to ignore long tradition? And not just the use of Sunday's former mortal name, but this sudden interest in appointing a Rightful Heir and having the other Trustees acknowledge him.

Is this some ploy of Sunday's to gain control over the rest of the House? But it makes no sense; Sunday is already first in precedence. He could wrest control from the other Trustees by virtue of wielding the paramount Key.

"But you are aware of what goes on in the House. Who 'Phineas' really is, and the like?" Monday asks.

"You mean that he's Lord Sunday? And supposedly the most important person in the House."

"There is no 'supposedly'," Sunday puts in, offended. "I am first in precedence."

"Yeah, I wanted to ask about that. What's this precedence thing about?"

"It is the measure of importance and authority within the House. I am first. Monday is eighth."

"That's why you're the tallest Denizen I've seen, right?" Arthur asks. "Cathy was telling me about how a person's height tells you how important they are."

"Another indication of higher precedence is a Denizen's appearance. Those with nicer clothes and more attractive features are high up," Monday adds. He wonders what Sunday has told him of the House; this is fairly basic information, especially important if Sunday intends for Arthur to meet with the other Trustees.

"Wow," Arthur says. "How many Denizens are there in the House, then? Cathy said she was 12,000 and somethingth."

Sunday shrugs. "I do not know. There are several tens of thousands in the Incomparable Gardens."

"There are less than ten billion," Monday says. "I assume this Cathy is a Piper's Child?" At Arthur's surprised nod, he continues, "She must be one of the highest ranked. The Piper's Children are relatively new to the House; they have been here for only two millennia. The tasks of the House were already well established when they arrived, making it difficult for them to find open positions. However, they are versatile and able to handle numerous tasks rather than being limited to one task as the lesser Denizens are."

"Oh," Arthur says. "You know a lot about the House."

"Minor details that are of no real concern to anyone," Sunday puts in, scowling at Monday.

Jealous, Monday thinks with amusement.

"They used to be mortals like me, right?" Arthur asks, calmly ignoring Sunday's words. "But they're different than you, Phineas," he adds, looking at the Trustee.

"The Piper's Children were human. Sunday was not," Monday remarks. "Also, Sunday is the son of the Architect and the Old One. So while he is technically mortal, I would say it is only in the barest sense of the word, whereas there was nothing remarkable about the Piper's Children before the Piper brought them to House."

"So, is the Piper a Trustee too?"

"Certainly not," Sunday huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "He is far too immature."

Arthur coughs and looks at Monday for an explanation. He seems to be trying not to smile. Monday finds himself smirking back.

"The Piper is the youngest son of the Architect and the Old One; he was a mortal as well. He has little interest in affairs of the House. I do not know much about him; the Piper seldom strayed to the Lower House," he explains.

"He enjoys staying in the Secondary Realms, consorting with mortals," Sunday adds haughtily.

"You visited me on Earth," Arthur says.

"It's different," Sunday insists.

"Ok, Phineas."

Sunday looks temporarily mollified; Monday supposes agreeing to this meeting was worth it just to watch Arthur push Sunday around. The best part is Sunday seems utterly unaware of it.

"Well, I trust you are convinced?" Sunday asks, turning back to Monday. "You can give over the First Key now."

Monday raises his eyebrows in spite of himself. "All we have ascertained is that you have done little to educate Arthur on matters of the House," he says.

"I know about the Keys and the Demesnes and stuff," Arthur protests. "The Architect and Her Will..." He bites his lip. "It's not your fault that She made a mistake when She bound the Old One, so I don't see why everyone should have to die to fix it."

It seems that Sunday has explained the important concepts to Arthur, Monday must concede. "Nevertheless, I do not feel confident in your capabilities," Monday says frankly. "I refuse to hand over my Key, even if you intend to give it back immediately," he adds when Arthur opens his mouth to protest again. "I will consider it if you convince another Trustee to do so."

"You'll _do_ it if we convince another Trustee to do so," Sunday says.

Monday considers this. He is likely the only one willing to even listen to this insane proposal; the other Trustees would dismiss it out of hand.

"I really will give it back. It's not like I'd know what to do with a Key even if I had it," Arthur says. He seems earnest.

Monday frowns. "Very well, I will hand over my Key if you find another Trustee who does the same first. Though I doubt you will find anyone willing to even consider it."

* * *

My reasoning for Monday being eighth in precedence: if you'll recall, in _Sir Thursday_ it was stated that Arthur was sixth in precedence when he was drafted. But there was only four Trustees left at that point, which would have made Arthur fifth if we're assuming only the Trustees were above him. So why was he one lower than that? I'm thinking that either the Mariner and the Piper were in there somewhere. They're both around in this fic, hence Monday being eighth rather than seventh.

(Or, y'know, the Architect. but then Sunday wouldn't be first either so let's pretend She doesn't count oops)


	22. Chapter 22

Arthur stares at the door for a couple of seconds after Monday and his Dusk leave. Apparently Monday has some matter to attend to, but he said he'd be back within the hour.

"Well, this is good...?" Arthur says slowly.

"Indeed. I feared he would completely refuse. Now we have just to find another Trustee who will give their Key to you, and Monday will do the same."

"Ok, but how likely is that to happen?" Arthur asks.

Phineas leans back, the chair creaking slightly beneath his large frame. At length, he remarks, "Tuesday is lazy. His wits are likely dulled by Sloth. He will give the Second Key over with a minimum of fuss."

Arthur frowns; Monday said the others wouldn't want to give up the Keys at all, but Phineas would know his fellow Trustees best... wouldn't he? "It'll be fine as long as you come with me, right?"

"Yes, but I cannot," Phineas says.

"What? Why?" Arthur protests. He's not going to venture into the Far Reaches alone! Meeting Monday was intimidating enough, even with Phineas beside him.

"I must tend the Gardens," Phineas explains, like this is a totally reasonable excuse. Which, for the record, it really isn't.

Phineas seems to sense some of Arthur's outrage. Maybe it's the disbelieving look Arthur's giving him.

"Well, you won't have to go alone. He will likely want proof that you have convinced another Trustee to hand over their Key, so I will have Monday go with you if you're worried," Phineas says.

"Um," Arthur says, glancing at Monday, who has just walked back in.

"And where would you have me go, Lord Sunday?" Monday asks. If he gets any more sarcastic... Well, Arthur doesn't really want to know what might happen.

"The Far Reaches," Phineas says blithely.

"Really," Monday deadpans.

Arthur doesn't know how Phineas can be quite so oblivious.


	23. Chapter 23

"Did you and Sunday discuss what you are going to say when we meet with Grim Tuesday?" Monday asks.

Arthur looks at him blankly. "Phineas said Tuesday would probably give up the Key without a fuss."

Monday sighs. Of course there is no plan. "I doubt that. Tuesday may be afflicted by Sloth, but he is not stupid; nor will he relinquish the Key lightly." None of the Trustees would, for that matter; which was why Monday had agreed to hand his over only if Arthur convinced another to do so first. Nevertheless, he has no wish to get in a fight with Tuesday should Arthur inadvertently insult him or something similar.

"Then why did we start with him? Phineas said Tuesday would be the easiest."

"Relatively speaking," Monday mutters. "That does not mean this will be _easy_." The signs of Tuesday's affliction are many and varied. Finished products await Tuesday's approval to be shipped out to the other Demesnes; records of orders awaiting fulfillment spill into the halls; and Monday knows that the majority of the Denizens that they passed on the way to this antechamber were only pretending to be busy. But Tuesday still wields the Second Key, and he should not be underestimated.

"I should have guessed," Arthur says glumly. "Phineas does have an, uh, unrealistic way of viewing things."

"That is putting it lightly," Monday says, though he cannot help smirking despite the potentially dire situation into which Sunday has thrust them.

"So what should I say?" Arthur asks, glancing around the room. He is not a bad ally, Monday supposes. He acknowledges his lack of experience and defers to those better suited. And now that he has Monday for counsel, he likely will not end up insulting another Trustee and getting killed as would have resulted under Sunday's tutelage.

He gives the thought of sabotaging Arthur's attempts a mere second's consideration. Monday has his pride, after all.

Monday, loathe as he is to admit, can only think of one plan. Had he been given more notice, he would doubtless have been able to concoct a better scheme. But without knowing how long they have before their audience with Tuesday (it could be a matter of minutes; or possibly days) he must go with this one, distasteful as if may be.

"I will outline the plan that I have in mind, whereupon change may be effected, time allowing," Monday says. He waits for Arthur's cautious nod before explaining the plan.


	24. Chapter 24

There is something demeaning about playing the Will's part in a nearly perfect copy of its attempt to trick a Trustee into giving up their Key.

Arthur stands quietly at Monday's side; the top of his head barely reaches Monday's elbow.

Tuesday is in a wheeled chair, which is pushed about by his Noon.

Monday had been hoping that they would have an audience with Tuesday alone. He needs to get rid of Noon.

"Greetings, Grim Tuesday," Monday says, inclining his head the barest amount.

Arthur bows, as Monday had instructed him; he is gratified to see that Arthur's form is nearly perfect, for all that they had little time to practice. Arthur is of the correct age to be a Piper's Child, and Monday is hoping that he will be mistaken for one.

Tuesday glares back. "Travelling with a Piper's Child now, Monday?" he sneers.

"My Times are busy maintaining the Lower House," Monday says, unable to keep the censure out of his own voice.

Arthur casts a worried glance up at him, but wisely remains silent.

"You interrupted my afternoon nap to lecture me about the conducting of business within my Demesne?" Tuesday demands, outraged. "_Again_?!"

"It is already _late evening_," Monday retorts, unable to stop himself.

Arthur kicks him in the ankle, recalling Monday to his purpose.

"I was hoping," Monday says quickly, trying to force some civility into his tone, "to have a word with you. In private."

Tuesday looks pointedly at Arthur.

"_We_ were hoping," Monday amends with a smile that feels more like a grimace.

"It would be a great honour," Arthur puts in unexpectedly.

Noon bends forward to murmur in Tuesday's ear. Irritation crosses Tuesday's face.

"Very well! I hope you do not expect me to accomplish anything today after this unsolicited interruption."

"Certainly not, master," Noon says, without batting so much as an eyelash at the ridiculous pronouncement.

"Get out of my sight. It is obvious you have more important tasks than attending your master," Tuesday says viciously.

"Master." Noon bows and departs, leaving Tuesday alone.

"And plenipotentiary powers are henceforth transferred to Dawn!" Tuesday snarls at Noon's back. He turns his disgruntled face back to Monday. "Well, spit it out. I know my loathing of you is mutual; there must be something _urgent_-" he utters the word distastefully, "-to warrant a visit to my Demesne."

"Indeed. I do not wish to extend my stay any longer than necessary," Monday says. "Sunday has approached me with a unique opportunity to circumvent the Will."


	25. Chapter 25

"Sunday!" Tuesday repeats scornfully. "I'm surprised that fool left the Incomparable Gardens."

"It was a great surprise for me as well," Monday says dryly.

"Well, what is this proposal? It must be astonishing; I cannot imagine one such as you stooping to play the messenger for just anyone."

Monday ignores the insult. "You are correct. Sunday has engaged a mortal, one qualified to become the Rightful Heir."

Tuesday turns to squint at Arthur. "He didn't seem like a Piper's Child."

"Indeed, young Arthur is mortal," Monday agrees.

"I will not give up the Second Key," Tuesday says, clenching his hands into fists. The metal of the Second Key gauntlets rasps together discordantly.

"It will not be giving the Key up so much as... temporarily loaning it out," Monday says.

Tuesday's gaze drifts to the sword at Monday's side. "And you have already done this?"

"Yes," Monday lies.

"And what does this entail? I was talking to the mortal," Tuesday adds, when Monday opens his mouth to reply.

"Um, well. I've only... done it once," Arthur hedges. "Basically, I accept the Key from you and appoint you regent of the Demesne in question (so, the Far Reaches in this case) and things go back to the way they were. Except now you don't have to worry about that pesky Will because you did relinquish the Key to a Rightful Heir like it says."

Tuesday sighs. "That is entirely too much effort. My portion of the Will remains secure, so there is no reason to go through with that."

"It just takes a couple of words," Arthur says, stepping on Monday's foot when he goes to retort. "And then I have to say some things, and then we'll be out of your hair! You probably won't see us again for..." Here he looks up at Monday once again.

"The rest of eternity," Monday says promptly.

"... Never seeing your arrogant face again is appealing," Tuesday muses.

"Likewise," Monday grits out. "Your slack administration and lackadaisical attitude are offensive."

"OK! You don't like each other. I get it, you both get it, I bet every Denizen in the Far Reaches and the Lower House gets it. So are you going to do it or not, Grim Tuesday?"

Tuesday draws himself up; despite his lack of activity, his shoulders remain broad and he cuts an impressive figure despite the tartan blanket tucked over his legs. "There will be no intrusion on my Demesne from the other Trustees?"

"At least not Monday and Sunday," Arthur says. "We haven't asked the others yet. But I'll have them agree when we do!" he adds quickly.

Tuesday is silent for several moments, apparently mulling this over.

"Very well," he says at length. "I have reached my decision.

"I, Tuesday, Trustee of the Ultimate Architect, keeper of the Second Key and Lord of the Far Reaches, hereby relinquish the Second Key and with it Mastery of the Far Reaches, to Arthur, the Rightful Heir."

The gauntlets glow briefly, then fly off Tuesday's hands and onto Arthur's.

"Oh," Arthur says, staring down at the Key. It has resized itself to fit his smaller hands perfectly, Monday notes.

"Now, my Key?" Tuesday says, glaring. Or glaring as much as someone with eyes half-lidded and looking to be on the verge of sleep can, at any rate.

"Right, sorry. There's just one thing that I want to try first." Arthur crosses the distance between himself and Tuesday before Monday or the Grim can react. He lays his hands upon Tuesday's shoulders and says, "Be healed, in body and in mind."


	26. Chapter 26

Monday takes a step back, eyes wide. Sunday did not mention this; nor did Arthur.

"Did I startle you?" Arthur asks, glancing back at him.

Monday realizes that his hand has dropped to the hilt of the First Key. Could Monday enter the Improbable Stair before Arthur was upon him? Fighting is out of the question, even if Arthur likely has no experience; the Second Key is stronger in the Far Reaches.

"... Yes," Monday admits, eyeing the boy warily. Is it merely his imagination, or has Arthur gained several inches of height?

Tuesday shrugs Arthur's hands off and goes down to one knee in a single smooth motion. "Lord Arthur," he says. He is transformed, much closer to how Monday remembers him before they became Trustees. Not precisely, though; without Mastery of the Far Reaches, he has likely dropped several places in precedence.

"Rise, Tuesday," Arthur says, turning away from Monday.

Now would be the opportune time to leave and close the Lower House to any outside intrusion (insofar as such a thing is possible) but Monday finds himself rooted in this spot, watching Arthur and Tuesday.

"You know where things have gone wrong, Tuesday."

"Yes," Tuesday agrees.

"Well, don't let it happen again," Arthur says calmly.

"I won't, Lord Arthur."

"Then, I hereby appoint Tuesday Regent of the Far Reaches," Arthur says. "And just call me Arthur," he adds.

Tuesday stands, seeming to grow several inches in the process. "Thank you. Arthur." He accepts the gauntlets, flexing his hands a few times as if reacquainting himself with their feel, then turns to Monday, "You did not undergo this process."

It isn't a question, but neither is there accusation in Tuesday's voice.

"Not yet," Monday says. Not _ever_, if he has his way. There is nothing wrong with his Demesne; there will be no need to hand over his Key and be... _restored_ by Arthur.

"That's obvious, you arrogant dandy."

"I am not a dandy," Monday retorts automatically.

"Not disputing the 'arrogant', I see." Tuesday sounds far too amused for Monday's tastes.

"You're the first," Arthur says, looking up at Tuesday. Apparently he does not want their argument to erupt once more. "Sorry for lying. But Phineas thought starting with the Seventh Key would be too much and Monday didn't want to give his up."

Tuesday shrugs, apparently unbothered by the deception. "They told you I would be the easiest, I assume?"

"Um, yeah. Sorry."

"Doubtless they were correct. I had a mind to refuse, but the thought of never seeing Monday again was too tempting to pass up." Tuesday looks thoughtful. "I do not imagine the other Trustees will be so easily swayed. It was Monday's presence that decided me, not any wish to circumvent the Will. I had no desire to see the Will fulfilled, of course, but I believed the measures I had taken were sufficient for it to remain locked away."

Monday resents that, but he has no wish to be drawn back into the conversation; nor to remind Arthur that he had promised to hand over the First Key after another Trustee did the same.

"I had best resume my duties," Tuesday remarks abruptly. "Things have not been as they should for too long."

"We'll leave you to it, then," Arthur says. "Right, Monday?"

Monday tenses when Arthur looks at him, but reluctantly nods. The satisfaction he ought to feel as a result of knowing that the Far Reaches will be put to rights is eclipsed by the dread he feels when he looks at Arthur. Had someone told him he would come to fear a seemingly harmless mortal, Monday would have laughed, yet here he is.

"Yes, quite," Monday says belatedly, choosing to ignore the half-pitying, half-amused look Tuesday is giving him. He certainly does not need pity from the likes of Tuesday.


	27. Chapter 27

Monday feels a surge of irritation when he and Arthur walk into his office in the Dayroom to find Sunday _lounging_ (there is no other word for the indolent sprawl of his legs) at Monday's desk.

"Isn't there some gardening that you need to attend to," he demands irritably, stalking over to the other Trustee. Since that was, after all, the excuse Sunday made to avoid joining their little expedition in the first place. Of course, it's been a day since Monday and Arthur departed for the Far Reaches; it took that long for Tuesday to see them.

"There is nothing that requires my direct attention at this time, no," Sunday says stiffly, though he does move when Monday flaps his arms at him rather pointedly.

"Aren't you going to ask how it went, Phineas?" Arthur asks, perching himself in one of the high-backed chairs before Monday's desk.

Sunday sniffs. "I imagine it went swimmingly. You are both intact, and you, Arthur, seem to have grown at least three inches. Tuesday was agreeable, then?" He sits down in the chair next to Arthur, his entire profile turned towards the boy in a blatant exclusion of Monday.

Which is just as well. Monday would rather have a few moments to think. Arthur was quiet on the trip back to the Lower House, but his mere presence had made Monday uncomfortable. Now that Sunday is here to take his attention, Monday can try to take stock of things.

"I grew? Really?" Arthur looks down at his hands, then back up. "My parents will definitely notice that..."

Sunday's face adopts a shifty expression.

"What is it?" Arthur asks. "Did something happen to them-?"

"No, not as such, however..."

"If you wish to check on your family, I can have the Seven Dials set," Monday says.

Arthur blinks. "The Seven Dials?"

Monday rings the bell to summon Sneezer. The Denizen appears in a matter of moments.

"Master," he says, bowing.

"Sneezer, Arthur would like to observe his family on Earth. Sunday will be accompanying him."

"At once. If you would follow me, Master Penhaligon, Lord Sunday..."

Arthur looks at Sunday, who seems quite uncomfortable. Monday feels a thrill of satisfaction.

"Very well," Sunday says with obvious reluctance. The two of them rise and follow Sneezer into the Seven Dials.


	28. Chapter 28

"Monday seemed out of sorts," Phineas observes the moment they close the door to Monday's office.

Sneezer bustles about the room, fiddling with the dials of seven grandfather clocks. Arthur can only assume that these are the Seven Dials. Monday had not hesitated to explain minutiae of the House to him before, but he didn't tell Arthur anything when he asked about the Seven Dials.

He'd been quiet since Tuesday handed over the Second Key, now that Arthur thinks of it.

"Yeah," he agrees. He feels bad about talking about Monday in front of his subordinates, even if Sneezer is doing a good job of pretending not to hear.

"Monday's always kind of stuffy, like 'e's got a stick up 'is-"

"Excuse me?" Phineas puts in haughtily as they both turn to the girl sitting in a chair at the edge of the room.

The Piper's Child grins unrepentantly at Phineas. "You 'eard me."

Sneezer coughs. "Miss Turquoise Blue, this is Lord Sunday." The unspoken, 'so perhaps you ought to show some respect' is perfectly understood nevertheless.

"Yeah, but Monday's the Master of the Lower House," the girl says. "Wait, what's Sunday again?"

"Pardon her, milord. She's just been washed between the ears," Sneezer says. "She doesn't rightly know what she's saying."

"What's washing between the ears?" Arthur asks, recalling that Cathy had warned him about it earlier. It seems a lot more sinister now. What kind of washing makes someone forget about the power structure of their home?

"Unpleasant, that's what," the girl says. "'Least I think it is. Can't really remember right now." She shrugs.

"Phineas?"

"A process that disrupts the memory of Piper's Children."

That's a classic Phineas avoidance if Arthur's ever heard one. "And what does this process _entail_?"

"I'm not entirely certain. I have forbidden Saturday's Bathroom Attendants from entering the Incomparable Gardens and performing it on the Piper's Children in my Demesne," Phineas says stiffly.

"Do you know, Sneezer?"

"Indeed, Master Penhaligon. The Bathroom Attendants, using sorcerous means beyond my ken, gather the experiences of a Piper's Child every so often. There is no set schedule for their... visits. This 'washing', as it were, is why Miss Turquoise Blue cannot recall very much at this time. Her memory has been taken quite recently. I believe you were visiting the Far Reaches with Lord Monday at the time."

"That's terrible," Arthur bursts out. "Why does that happen!?"

"I do not know. Perhaps Lord Sunday could shed some light on that question," Sneezer says.

Phineas frowns. "Washing between the ears is, in a manner of speaking, a type of internal audit. And as Bathroom Attendants are a specialized corps of Internal Auditors, who fall under Saturday's purview, Saturday is within her rights to order it done."

"So you don't know why she does it," Arthur says, after parsing that confusing sentence.

"... No," Phineas admits.

"Well, as soon as Monday hands over the First Key like he promised, I'm going to make sure she can't do it here anymore," Arthur declares. "Same with the Far Reaches."

Phineas is already shaking his head. "No. Saturday's authority exceeds Monday and Tuesday's."

"Then you can do it! You said you're the ruler of the House."

"I do not wish to cause unnecessary strife within the House," Phineas says reasonably.

"Seriously," Arthur mutters. How _convenient_. He'll talk Phineas around.

Sneezer clears his throat. "I have set the Seven Dials to observe Monday on Earth, Master Penhaligon."

"Monday?" Arthur says, going over to the edge of the circle and peering in. "You mean Sunday."

It's a little like watching television; his parents are sitting in the kitchen, looking worried. Emily is talking into the home phone, and Bob into his cell phone. Emily's pager and cell phone are lying on the table.

"It is Monday on Earth. Around noon, to be specific," Sneezer says.

Arthur looks back up at Phineas. Phineas looks at the nearest grandfather clock.

"You said I could go back without anyone knowing I would be gone," Arthur says. "Actually, you promised."

"Breaking a promise. That's worse than breaking your word," Suzy puts in helpfully.

Phineas sends her a look that would likely have quelled a fellow Trustee. Suzy blithely ignores it.

"'Least I think it is. That sounds about right, don't it, Sneezer?"

"I suppose, Miss Turquoise Blue," Sneezer says in an undertone.

"It is Monday's fault," Sunday says loudly, turning to Arthur.

"Phineas, you _promised_," Arthur says.

"Monday visited Earth on a Monday! You can no longer return to Earth on the Sunday you left," Phineas explains. "The Monday after it has already been brought in line with House time."

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, scowling. His parents have noticed his absence, if the scene in their kitchen is any indication. If it's already noon, he's missed half a day of school. Not that he was really looking forward to his first day at a new school, but still.

He's so grounded when he gets back.

"What's the earliest I can go back?" Arthur asks.

"Anytime Monday afternoon, Master Penhaligon," Sneezer says.

"Then I want to go back now," Arthur says.

"What about 'Is Lordship's Key?" Suzy asks.

Arthur exhales. "Right. Well, Monday doesn't want to give it up... But he promised..." He scowls at Phineas, who has the grace to look ashamed.

"Probably best to strike while the iron's hot. So to speak. ... Huh, I don't even know what that means," Suzy says.

Arthur nods. "You're right." He walks over to the door back into Monday's office and stops with his hand on the doorknob. "... Should I knock? I should probably knock, right?"

"I'll come with you," Phineas says.

"That's ok. I don't think Monday likes you very much," Arthur wants to say. It's mean, but he's really mad at Phineas. He broke his promise (even if the breaking was because of Monday) and now he won't even try to help the Piper's Children in the other Demesnes because he doesn't want to start an argument with Saturday?

What he really says is, "I think I should talk to Monday alone. He might feel pressured if you came too."

Phineas frowns faintly but doesn't object.

"I would suggest knocking, Master Penhaligon," Sneezer adds.


	29. Chapter 29

Monday scowls. He's pacing his office again, a practice that he generally hates. It implies that there is some pressing matter that must be attended to but is being avoided, and also that no resolution for said matter is readily forthcoming. Monday prefers things executed with swiftness and efficiency; this anxious uncertainty is unwelcome.

It would be easier if Monday had to give his Key back to the Architect. She was unyielding and expected unquestioning obedience from Her creations. There was no room for indecision, because the decision was already made for him; for good or for ill, it was out of his hands. Monday needs only look to the Far Reaches to see the inimical effects of disobeying the Architect (or Her Will, in this case).

Effects that Arthur is attempting to combat, another part of Monday adds. Tuesday has been restored; production will recommence, although it will likely take years before everything is fixed.

But the operation of the Lower House continues unimpeded. Monday's administration is not so flawed as Tuesday's. There is no reason for Monday to be 'restored'. Perhaps certain other Trustees might benefit from such a process, but Monday has no need of such things.

A knock interrupts his thoughts. It comes from the door to the Seven Dials. A brief frown passes across his face, but he goes to answer it nonetheless.

Arthur is standing on the other side, Phineas conspicuously absent.

Now would be the opportune moment to tell Arthur that he has no intention of being healed. But Monday does not intend to tell Arthur that. He has his dignity.

"I do not wish to be 'healed' as you did with Tuesday," Monday blurts out as soon as Arthur closes the door behind himself. He is so appalled at what he has just admitted that all he can do is stare at Arthur as the boy frowns.

"I really did upset you when I healed Tuesday, didn't I?" Arthur muses.

Monday grits his teeth. "With good reason," he says, regaining his composure. "Neither you nor Sunday made any mention of it! At any rate, there is no need for me to be healed."

Arthur looks at him, and for a moment Monday forgets that he is facing a mere child. There is something sharp and calculating in Arthur's gaze.

"It was a spur of the moment decision," Arthur says after an endless moment, blinking away that intense focus. Monday belatedly realizes that he is holding his breath and exhales. "Why would you think I would want to heal you? You just said there's nothing wrong with you," Arthur adds.

"That-" Monday stops, gritting his teeth once more. No matter what Arthur suggests, there _is_ nothing wrong with him. "Then we are agreed. I will hand over the First Key and you will appoint me Regent afterward. There is no need for any... healing."

Arthur tilts his head, that sharp expression reappearing. "On one condition."

Monday narrows his eyes. "Which is?"

"I want you to fix my asthma."


	30. Chapter 30

As expected, Arthur's grounded when he gets back to Earth. Everyone thinks he ran away from home. Arthur guesses that that isn't totally wrong. If he told them the truth - he'd left the house with a strange man that he's been meeting since he was four years old, ventured to the Epicentre of the Universe and become Master of the Lower House and the Far Reaches, all because the strange man told him he'd suffer a fatal asthma attack - well, that farfetched story would only have gotten him in more trouble.

Eric is amused, Emily is furious (Bob less so, but still upset) and Michaeli just rolls her eyes. Luckily, everyone's too hung up on Arthur running away to notice that he has, actually, grown a couple of inches.

"You're going to have to go to school sometime," Emily says. "I now it's hard right now but I'm sure you'll make friends."

It's hard to keep a straight face when his parents are talking to him: it's not like he _wanted_ to miss his first day there, it just happened. And his asthma is gone; Arthur is too happy to be upset by the lecturing.

Monday healed it in exchange for not being healed like Tuesday. Not that Arthur was ever planning on doing it; Monday might be kind of stuck up, but that's not a big deal. Phineas was pretty stuck up, and Arthur got used to it. But Tuesday's Sloth was messing up the whole House, and it needed to be fixed.

He's not allowed to go outside without supervision (not that he usually would have gone outside) so Arthur runs up and down the stairs of the house a couple of times, enjoying the easiness of his breathing.

Michaeli rolls her eyes and mutters "freak" affectionately when she catches him at it, but Arthur's too excited to care.

Still, he takes that as a sign to stop. If Michaeli stops and thinks about it, she'll realize that he shouldn't have been able to do it. And anyone else might notice right away; it's lucky that Michaeli's distracted with homework and her boyfriend.

Arthur still has to pack his bag for school tomorrow. Usually he buys lunch, but he's so restless that he puts something together from the leftovers in the fridge the night before.


	31. Chapter 31

It starts raining on Saturday.

There's some sort of outbreak at the hospital; Emily doesn't come home at all that weekend.

Arthur's still grounded, of course. Michaeli has a study trip for one of the courses she's taking in university and Eric has a basketball tournament out of town. It's just Bob and Arthur in the house. Bob spends most of his time composing.

If he had any friends, Arthur might have used the opportunity to sneak out, but he doesn't yet. So he spends most of his time in his room, reading or surfing the internet. Occasionally he looks at the shiny red telephone sitting on his shelf (courtesy of Monday) but he manages to put it out of his mind every time. Phineas and Monday must be busy, and Arthur doesn't want to get any of the Piper's Children he knows in trouble by trying to call them. He doesn't know anyone else in the House well enough to even consider calling them.

It's still pouring on Sunday, but Arthur doesn't mind. He finds the steady pattering of the rain against the roof to be soothing. He leaves his window open a crack, so the scent of fresh rain permeates his room.

Arthur brings an umbrella to school. Thankfully it isn't windy. The weekly cross country run that was supposed to kill him last week is cancelled; the school track resembles a lake more than anything. He's a little disappointed because he'd wanted to try really running now that his asthma is gone, but there's always next week.

The storm drains are close to overflowing on Tuesday. Arthur watches news report after baffled news report discuss the 'unprecedented level of precipitation' . It _is_ pretty weird, but it's not like rain in the fall is unheard of. Most likely it's the result of global warming or something. In between those reports, there are brief information bites about the mysterious outbreak that's keeping Emily at the hospital.

Arthur falls asleep after ten o'clock on Tuesday, lulled by the steady beating of the rain against his window.

The storm drains overflow, flooding the streets of Arthur's city at 12:02 on Wednesday.


	32. Chapter 32

Arthur wakes up abruptly, completely alert yet utterly disoriented. He stares blindly into the darkness, trying to figure out what woke him, but all he can hear is the hissing of the rain outside.

A shrill ring pierces the soothing rain, startling Arthur. He glances at the digital clock on his bedside table: 12:10.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he makes his way to the shiny red telephone.

"Hello?"

"Arthur!"

Monday sounds entirely too relieved to hear his voice. Arthur wonders if Phineas was inadvertently pushing the other Trustee's buttons again.

"Monday?" he asks. "It's like the middle of the night..."

"It's the beginning of Wednesday, you mean," Monday says quickly. "We don't have much time. You must leave your home and find your way to the House."

"What? No, I said I wanted to wait at least a month before trying to convince the other Trustees!" Arthur protests, wandering over to the window. The spiral cord lengthens to accommodate his distance from the main part of the telephone. The windowpane is slick with rain, distorting Arthur's familiar street as he looks out.

"The other Trustees know about our plan," Monday says. "They are not pleased."

"Uh, yeah. Why is that a surprise?" Arthur frowns; the refraction must be playing tricks on him, because it looks like the street (and his yard, and everyone else's yard, for that matter) is flooded.

"Wednesday is moving against you, Arthur!" Monday snaps.

"What!?" Arthur wracks his brain, but he can't remember Phineas or Monday telling him anything about Lady Wednesday beyond the basics. She wields the Third Key, which takes the form of a trident, and rules the Border Sea. The Sea connects to various bodies of water in the Secondary Realms according to Wednesday's wish. These connections allow anything upon the Sea to travel to the Secondary Realm in question.

Arthur shoves the window open and leans out, heedless of the rain that quickly soaks his head and shoulders. The street is indeed flooded.

"Monday, my street's flooded!"

"I know," Monday says impatiently. "You have to leave before she arrives."

"Isn't it interference to show up in the Secondary Realms?"

"I will pretend you did not ask such a stupid question," Monday says, after a beat of silence. "It is currently Wednesday on Earth, and neither myself nor Tuesday can aid you. You are on your own until Sunday, unless you can find your way into the House."

"You mean Thursday and the others are against me too?!"

"It is not unlikely. At any rate, I would prefer not to assume they remain neutral."

"Wait, what about Phineas? Can't he do anything?"

"The Grower has informed me that Sunday has left the Incomparable Gardens for unknown reasons. The Grower is attempting to contact him to tell him of your plight, but as of yet he has not been found. At any rate, he could not aid you until next Sunday."

"Do you think something bad happened to him?" Arthur asks.

"It is a possibility, but even if the other four were working together they could not overcome the dominion of the Seventh Key. I find it more likely that the other Trustees tricked him somehow. He is easily distracted."

"That's true," Arthur mutters, scowling. "Ok, how do I get into the House? Phineas took me through the Improbable Stair last time... I just have to visualize the marble steps again, right-"

"Don't!" Monday snaps. "You do not have a Key, or a similar object created by the Architect. It is too dangerous."

"Too bad there's no elevators," Arthur mutters. "So... I should try the Front Door?"

"Yes; Sneezer has just verified that the House has manifested itself several miles south, down your street. I believe to most mortals the block of recently constructed houses would appear to be just that, but to you it should resemble the exterior of the House."

"Wait, what does that look like?"

"Like the House," Monday says unhelpfully.

"Can you be more specific? This is kind of important," Arthur says, annoyed.

"Arthur, you must leave _now_," Monday says sharply. "Wednesday is coming for you. You will know the House when you see it."

Before Arthur can reply, the line goes dead.

"Hey! Don't just hang up on me!" Arthur glares at the receiver, but it remains silent. Movement further up the street catches his attention.

Arthur's no nautical expert, but the ship that has just sailed into view means business. It (she?) has three masts, an impressive array of cannons, and a blue flag with a silver trident flying from the highest mast. Even from this distance, Arthur can see the tall woman standing next to the helm. He has no doubt that she is impossibly beautiful.

A wave of water washes down the street; the flood visibly rises several inches.

"South? Please tell me that's not south," Arthur mutters, ducking back inside and slamming the window shut. Thankfully he'd fallen asleep in his regular clothes. After a few moment's thought, Arthur decides that Wednesday's ship is coming from the north.

He grabs his jacket and pulls it on as he runs down the stairs.

Bob is sitting at the dining room table, a sandwich raised halfway to his mouth. The clock on the wall behind him is glowing red, and the hands don't seem to be moving.

Arthur shakes his shoulder, but Bob barely moves, and his eyes are blank when Arthur peers into them. Has time... stopped? But then Arthur really will be stuck; if it's Wednesday, no other Trustee will be able to enter Earth...

Arthur bites his lip, the thought of being caught by Wednesday spurring him on. At least Bob is safe... probably... if time has stopped. Arthur needs to worry about himself now.

The Penhaligon house is built on a bit of a rise. Arthur tumbles out the backdoor onto the stoop and stops. Even as he stands there, staring, the water rises to lap at his boots. Everything else is submerged. Arthur takes a few steps down, but the water is already up to his knees.

He retreats back to the top step, pressing against the closed door, worrying at his lower lip.

Wednesday's ship has yet to appear around the side of his house, but it doesn't matter. Arthur can't swim. She's already caught him.


	33. Chapter 33

Arthur's despair at his imminent capture is interrupted by a loud splash.

"Ugh. Too much water," a familiar voice says. Suzy climbs onto the top step next to him and shakes her head. If Arthur wasn't already soaked, he would be now. She has silvery wings and is holding some weird, soaked cloths.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks, blinking. "Monday said-"

"Oh, please. I'm not limited to showing up on special days of the week like the 'igher ups," Suzy says, rolling her eyes. "Put these on." Without waiting for a reply, she darts behind him and presses the cloth to his back.

"Heh. Top quality, these are. Dusk said they were from 'Is Lordship's private collection," Suzy remarks with satisfaction.

Arthur twitches his shoulder blades, trying to dislodge the... whatever it is that Suzy put there.

"Wings?" Arthur asks, craning his head in an attempt to see his back. A pair of wings similar to Suzy's seems to be growing out of his back. It isn't a painful sensation, just... unpleasant. The wings themselves are faintly luminous, and they're a lot finer than the various pairs that Arthur had seen Denizens in the House using.

Well, if they're from Monday's 'private collection', that only makes sense.

"Yep. Everyone's watching through the Seven Dials. They figured you couldn't swim," Suzy explains.

"Great. That's helpful." Arthur takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It's not Monday's fault he can't do more to help than sending Suzy and some wings. "Anyway, I'm glad you came and brought me wings. Do you know how to fly?"

"Nope," Suzy says easily. "Reckon I might've flew before, but I just got washed between the ears, y'know. Can't remember it."

Arthur sighs. "Well, how hard can it be?"

"That's the spirit, Artie," Suzy says brightly. "Think a bit of a running start will help?" Without waiting for a reply, she backs up against the wall of the house and makes a running leap. Her wings unfold and flap briskly. She rises quickly.

"C'mon!" Suzy calls, waving at him encouragingly.

Arthur takes a deep breath and copies her. For one horrible second he thinks that he might belly flop into the rising water, but then his wings start flapping and he joins Suzy in the air.

Suzy laughs, doing a flip. "This isn't so bad."

Arthur grins back, though he doesn't quite feel comfortable enough to mimic her. "No, it's not."

A burst of shouting interrupts their excitement. From this angle, Arthur can see that Wednesday's ship has drawn much nearer. The Denizens on the vessel are bustling about, doing... ship things. As Arthur watches, some of the cannons are being brought about to point at them.

"Ok, let's go to the House," Arthur says quickly.

"Right," Suzy agrees fervently.

As if sensing their urgency, the silvery wings begin beating strongly, bearing Arthur and Suzy south, away from his house.


	34. Chapter 34

"_Seriously_," Arthur groans. Monday was right, he does know the House when he sees it. It's a massive mishmash of architecture, and it's impossible to keep his attention on one feature to find where it blends with the next before some other improbable architectural feat catches his eye.

And the Front Door is guarded by three ships. While they are not as impressive as Wednesday's flagship, it's still really discouraging.

"Huh. These weren't 'ere when Monday was looking before. You reckon we can break through one of the windows?" Suzy asks.

"I don't think that's how it works," Arthur says, although he had been wondering the same thing. However, the facade seems to shift before his eyes, and where he could swear there was a window a moment before, smooth marble walls or red brick or something else is there when he looks back. "Besides, they keep moving..."

"Well, what should we do?" They're high enough that they should be well out of the cannons' range, but they would have to swoop down to well within firing distance if they mean to enter the Front Door.

"'Is Lordship said all we 'ad to do was touch the Door..." Suzy says slowly. There's a ship directly in front of it, and the other two are close by; even touching the Door would be impossible.

Arthur glances back over his shoulder. Wednesday's ship draws closer with every passing second.

"There might be another door on the side," Arthur says, but he doesn't sound convincing even to himself.

"You think?" Suzy asks doubtfully. "I can't even find the corner of the House, now that I think of it."

Arthur tries to and finds himself frustrated as well; every time his eyes near what must be the corner, he is distracted by another improbable architectural feature.

"'Least they can't fire at us from here," Suzy says. "And it's not like they have wings."

"But wouldn't all the Trustees have wings," Arthur says. Almost as soon as he says it, Wednesday rises from the deck of her ship, wings shimmering from the bright green of an ocean to the dark blue of storm-tossed waves.

"You had to say it," Suzy says accusingly.

"Attention Arthur Penhaligon, Impostor Heir to the Architect," Wednesday says, drawing level with them and halting several hundred metres away. Her voice is one of the prettiest that Arthur has ever heard. "Renounce your claim to the House. Swear to never return. Surrender the two Keys to the Kingdom that you have unjustly wrested from Monday and Tuesday. If you agree to these terms I will allow time to resume in this Secondary Realm with none the wiser to this flood. It will be as if this has been nothing but an unusually heavy rainfall."

"I already gave the Keys back to Monday and Tuesday!" Arthur protests. He's not going to promise not to go back to House. He's made friends there, and Phineas probably wouldn't care about any promises Arthur makes to the Trustees below him in precedence.

"I care not for those traitors," Wednesday declares. "Surrender them to Wednesday, Duchess of the Border Sea."

"You're busy enough raiding Secondary Realms," Suzy says. "You really think you have time to run two other Demesnes?"

Wednesday's fierce, beautiful gaze turns to Suzy. "Be silent, Piper's Child, and I will allow you to slink back to the Lower House."

"Make me," Suzy says, unfazed.

Wednesday touches the trident at her belt. Suzy inhales sharply, and when Arthur turns to look at her, her mouth is moving like she's trying to speak but no sound escapes.

Arthur clenches his fists. How dare Wednesday invade Earth? And she doesn't even want to restore the House to how it was before Phineas recruited Arthur; she just wants the First and Second Keys for herself. Does even care what happens to the House?

It seems like most of the Trustees don't, even though stopping the House from disappearing into the Void was the reason they decided to break the Will in the first place. Or at least that's what Phineas told him.

"I don't care what your demands are," Arthur says. "I'm not going to let you bully me into giving you something you have no right to."

Wednesday raises her chin, fury rendering her beautiful features terrible. "We shall see."

Arthur realizes what she's about to do a moment before she pulls the Third Key from her belt. It grows to nearly the same height as her as Wednesday lunges for him. He can't do anything; there's an ache in his teeth and joints; his ears ring, and all he can do is curl in pain. It's lucky the wings seem to work independently of Arthur's thoughts, otherwise he probably would have plummeted into the water.

Wednesday draws up short, surprise quickly eclipsed by her fury as a brilliant streak blasts into the space she would have occupied had she not stopped.

"Ahoy the flying children!" a booming voice calls.

Arthur looks to the south; another ship has appeared, nearly as impressive as Wednesday's flagship. It's a steamship, more along the lines of the ships that Arthur is used to seeing. Well, steam isn't really used anymore either but it's more modern than employing sails.

An elderly man with bright white hair has his hands cupped around his mouth. He must be the speaker.

"Permission to board the _Fearless_ granted," the man adds.

Suzy slams into him, sending them both spiralling towards the other ship.

The same brilliant streak reappears in the man's hand; Arthur recognizes it as a harpoon a moment before he hurls it at Wednesday as she attempts to give pursuit.

Arthur flinches, the same crippling effects from before assaulting him, and then he and Suzy and slamming onto the deck in a whirl of limbs and feathers. The _Fearless_ is already turning about, the elderly man roaring orders to his crew.

One of the sailors (must be a Denizen, he and the rest of the crew are much too tall) scoops Arthur and Suzy up under his arms and hauls them into a cabin, which is just as well.

Arthur sees the old man throw the harpoon once more; although there is not much more than the whistle of it slicing through the air, it feels like the concussion of air from a jet taking off.

The Denizen gives them a brief, unreadable look then closes the door. Something clicks, and when Arthur manages to stagger to his feet, the door won't open.

Arthur looks at Suzy, who has come up behind him. She opens her mouth, scowls upon remembering that she cannot speak, and elbows him aside. No matter how she rattles the handle, it refuses to budge.

They're locked in.


	35. Chapter 35

"This can't be worse than being captured by Wednesday, right?" Arthur says hopefully.

Suzy shrugs and waves her hands in an utterly incomprehensible attempt to communicate.

"Uh, wait there's a desk. Maybe there's a weapon or something..." Arthur starts opening drawers as Suzy rustles through the papers and other stationery littering the desktop. There's a letter opener, but it's too dull to do more than rip envelopes open.

"Why'd you knock me out of the air, anyway?" Arthur asks, more to distract himself from his growing fear than any expectation of getting an answer. Now that he and Suzy are locked in this room, without any obvious means of escape, he has time to think about his predicament. They aren't happy thoughts.

Suzy thrusts a piece of parchment at him. _thought he was the piper from his voice. but he looks different. sounds different too, come to think of it._

Arthur frowns as he reads her writing. "You don't think he's a Trustee, do you? That harpoon was enough to give Wednesday pause..."

Suzy snatches the parchment back, dips the quill in some ink, and quickly scrawls a reply. _can't be, its wednesday._

"That's right," Arthur mutters. "Well, whoever the old man is, he's not on Wednesday's side anyway..."

Suzy nods distractedly, and doesn't stop searching the desk for something useful. Arthur gives up searching the drawers; he's rifled through them all, and there's nothing inside.

There is a cabinet mounted on the wall, with glass doors to contain the books within. Arthur slides one of the doors open and picks out the first that catches his eye. It's slim, with green binding and gold embossed lettering.

"_The Compleat Atlas of the House and Immediate Environs_," Arthur reads aloud. "Huh, wonder what's inside..." The covers refuse to open, no matter how he tugs at them. He can't even slip his fingers between the pages; they seem to be one solid piece.

Suzy wanders over, munching on a biscuit that she had apparently found on the desk. She tries to open it as well, with similar results.

_reckon it could be useful. most stuff that seems useless in the House is_, she writes.

Arthur snorts when he reads that. "True-"

A flash of light immediately follow by a deafening boom of thunder interrupts his words. Arthur and Suzy both flinch, their eyes drawn to the source of the light.

There's a small, round window set into the wall opposite the door, which they hadn't noticed before. They rush over to it, stumbling as the floor rolls beneath them.

"It was only raining before, there wasn't any thunderstorms!" Arthur says; Suzy either ignores him, or doesn't hear him. The latter seems more likely, as the thunder has become so frequent that it seems like a constant, loud sound.

A line of lightning is ahead of them, and they're sailing right for it.

"What is that!?" Arthur gasps. The book in his hand shivers and opens. He blinks and looks down. An unseen hand begins writing briskly, in an elegant form. At first the letters make no sense to Arthur, but when he blinks he sees the usual characters of the alphabet.

_The Line of Storms is the boundary between the House - more specifically, the Border Sea - and any body of water in the Second Realms the Border Sea is connected to it. It was created to prevent mortals entering the House; any who attempt to cross it die in the attempt._

"Die!" Arthur exclaims, although he can't even hear his voice over the racket of the thunder now. He looks back out the window, and the Line that is rapidly approaching.


	36. Chapter 36

"There is still no word from Sunday?" Monday demands irritably, aware that he is repeating himself for at least the fifth time.

"No," the Grower says, his words tighter than usual. Evidently his temper is fraying as well, likely because Monday keeps calling him.

Monday pinches the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that it is not the fault of Sunday's Noon that Sunday himself didn't inform the Denizen of his destination. "Very well. Please inform me if you learn anything new."

"I will," the Grower agrees.

Monday hangs up with more force than is strictly necessary and scowls at the desktop.

Arthur and Suzy had boarded the Mariner's vessel (though crash-landed on it might be a more accurate description) and passed beyond the view of the Seven Dials, no matter how Sneezer adjusted the dials of the grandfather clocks.

For whatever reason, the Mariner's vessel is hidden from the Seven Dials. Monday does not know whose side the Mariner could be on. If, like his brothers, he was fond of mortals; or whether he had another agenda that ran counter to both Wednesday's and Sunday's.

The phone rings, and Monday snatches it up.

"Monday," he barks into the receiver.

"You sound worried, Monday," Tuesday says. Monday can hear something clanking nearby, from Tuesday's end.

"Should you not be working on the vast number of unfilled orders?" Monday retorts.

"I can shape Nothing and speak on the phone at the same time. And here I thought you would approve of multi-tasking. It's more efficient, wouldn't you agree?" Which would explain the clanking, at any rate.

"When it serves some purpose. Why did you call?" Monday says curtly.

"I've already authorized the transportation of Nothing-powder and Not-Horses that Thursday's been demanding for... a while."

"Great," Monday says. "So when Thursday rolls around, assuming Wednesday has not destroyed Earth before she allows time to resume, Thursday will be able to finish the job."

"Someone sent me a list of items that they thought deserved special attention," Tuesday remarks idly. "For me to begin manufacturing immediately. Do you remember who that was, Monday?"

"Yes, all right, I did not think they would actively resist us!" Monday says, stiffening. It was true that he thought the supplies for the Great Maze needed greater priority than the things other Demesnes required.

"I do not think Thursday will," Tuesday says. "He has always been content to remain within the Great Maze."

"True," Monday mutters. "You still have not told me why you called."

"Ah, yes," Tuesday says distractedly. "I've decided to embargo the other Demesnes. Of course, it won't be much of a change from these past millennia, but it's better than nothing."

"That seems wise," Monday says grudgingly.

"Your approval warms my heart," Tuesday says.

"I do not recall you using these moronic idioms before," Monday snaps.

"I think it's a side effect of Lord Arthur restoring me," Tuesday says. "Ah, there. Done. I have to go now, Monday. We should talk again soon, I so enjoy it."

Monday scowls and slams the receiver down, his mood not improved in the slightest.


	37. Chapter 37

"-thur? Arthur?" Suzy's asking, from quite close by.

When Arthur opens his eyes, she's standing next to him, looking as surprised as he is that she can speak again.

The sea beyond the window is calm, and the sun is shining.

"Did we enter the House?" Arthur asks, blinking in confusion.

"Guess so," Suzy says. "On the bright side, you didn't die."

"Correct," the old man says, pushing the door open. Arthur and Suzy leap back, tensing warily. "As you are the Rightful Heir and Master of the Lower House and the Far Reaches, you are considered an inhabitant of the House. The Line of Storms would not reject you. However, we are not out of the storm yet."

"Who are you?" Arthur asks. The Atlas opens again, but Arthur doesn't look down at it just yet.

"Ah! I see you have found the Atlas. I suppose that confirms it; you are the Rightful Heir," the old man says, pleased. "I am Tom Shelvocke, also known as the Mariner."

"The Mariner! Phineas' middle brother?"

"Indeed, Arthur." The Mariner walks around them and takes a seat at the desk. "I must admit, I was surprised when he informed me that a Rightful Heir had been chosen." His eyes are an impossible shade of blue, and they look at Arthur with a piercing intensity. "I was even more surprised to find Wednesday chasing down a pair of children on Earth."

His expression becomes troubled. "Not that Wednesday should be in a Secondary Realm. She roams where she wishes these days, stealing anything and everything that strikes her fancy. But she has never shown any interest in mortals themselves before. Even so, I will not sit idly by and allow her to take what she pleases."

"She wanted the First and Second Keys," Arthur says.

"That explains it," the Mariner says. "Well, you do not seem to have either of them in your possession."

"No, I gave them back to Monday and Tuesday," Arthur agrees. "I don't really want to rule the House, but Phineas said the Will wants to destroy the House? And that would destroy the Secondary Realms, including Earth... So I guess I'll just have to get all the Keys and stop that."

The Mariner looks thoughtful. "I wonder if it will be that simple."

"Well, Wednesday doesn't seem like she wants to give hers up," Suzy says.

The Mariner laughs. "No, she does not relinquish things lightly. You have met my brother, Monday and Tuesday, Arthur; they are all afflicted by, hm... grave sins, I suppose you could call them."

"Yeah," Arthur agrees. "Envy, Pride and Sloth."

"And Wednesday's affliction is Greed," the Mariner says. He glances briefly out the window. "As I said before, we are not out of the storm; we are on the Border Sea, where Wednesday's authority is second only to Sunday's. Fortunately, we should reach a Transfer before she arrives to pursue us."

"Wait, why can't we take an elevator to other parts of the House?" Arthur protests.

"The only elevators are at Port Wednesday, which is many miles from here. I am taking a great risk sailing on Wednesday's waters as it is. I will not risk her stronghold," the Mariner explains. "However, I will drop you off in a suitable Secondary Realm."

"Well... ok," Arthur mutters. "And thanks, for rescuing us," he adds.

The Mariner inclines his head. "I find Wednesday's movements troubling. I have heard that you cured Tuesday of his Sloth; hopefully, you can do the same for the Duchess."

"Yeah," Arthur says. "I don't know. Monday was pretty against it."

"You do not need permission to do so," the Mariner remarks. "Although it is... refreshing that you would want to have it."

"It'll be a change from the usual 'igher ups, right?" Suzy says.

"Perhaps." The Mariner rises. "The Transfer is nearing; I will have to take the helm. I would suggest you remain inside, although I will not force you to."

"It's ok, we'll stay," Arthur says.

The Mariner nods and leaves, closing the door behind himself.


	38. Chapter 38

"It is Sunday here," the Mariner says. "I'm sure my brother will arrive to take you back into a friendly part of the House. I cannot linger myself, however; Wednesday cannot be allowed to plunder freely."

Arthur shades his eyes and looks around. They're on a small island that has a couple of weird trees, strangely coloured sand, and not much else. "Ok. Can you maybe tell him we're here though, just in case? Monday said he went off somewhere, so..."

The Mariner's weathered brow creases in a frown. "That is unusual. He never leaves the Gardens... Although, his habits have obviously changed, if he's decided to install a Rightful Heir. Very well, I will inform him."

"Thanks!" Arthur says.

The Mariner nods and returns to the small boat that had conveyed them from the _Fearless_ to the shore. Arthur and Suzy wave when he reaches his ship, and then the _Fearless_ sails away.

Suzy wanders over to the trees and slumps down at the foot of one. "It's too hot," she sighs, fanning herself with one hand. "'Ow long d'you think it'll take for Sunday to get 'ere?"

"I don't know," Arthur says, joining her. He tugs at his collar; he can already feel sweat prickling on his skin. "Well, it's probably afternoon here. We just have to wait for Monday if he doesn't show up..."

"Guess so," Suzy agrees. "'Least the water's drinkable. And 'e did leave us some rations."

The thought of food makes Arthur's stomach growl. "We should probably save it," Arthur says, trying to ignore the hunger. He wishes he'd eaten some of the biscuits that Suzy had found before. "It's only enough for a snack... And if we have to wait until tomorrow..."

"You're probably right," Suzy agrees, though she looks longingly at the small bag of rations beside him.

"Do you know any games?" Arthur asks, picking up a branch that had fallen or been broken off one of the weird trees. The soil is mostly sand, so it's easy to scratch some simple drawings into it using the stick.

"Can't remember 'em," Suzy says.

Arthur scowls at the reminder of washing between the ears. "Well, I'll teach you some then. Maybe it'll help you remember. You _do_ remember stuff eventually, right?"

"Some stuff," Suzy agrees easily. "Can't know if you remember everything though. Not like you'd know what you're missing."

Arthur's frown deepens, but he tries to put his anger aside as he teaches Suzy the basics of tic-tac-toe.

She picks that up easily, and pretty soon she's beating Arthur two games out of three. They play a strange, scaled down version of checkers with pieces of bark, and two rounds of I Spy (there's nothing to spy, so it gets boring extra quickly) and then they just lie on the sandy ground and stare up at the broad leaves of the trees, sweaty and hot and irritable.

"Where's Sunday?" Suzy grumbles. "Knew 'e seemed dodgy that first time."

"'e's- I mean, _he's_ not that bad," Arthur protests weakly, wiping at his sticky forehead with the back of his hand. "Kind of weird, maybe, but he means well."

Suzy huffs. "If 'e meant well, 'e'd be 'ere to get us," she mutters.

Arthur bites his lip. "Monday said nothing bad happened to him, probably, but I wonder where he is..."

"Oh, 'e probably just got into a spot of intense weeding and can't be bothered to answer the telephone," Suzy says. "Isn't that what they do in the Incomparable Gardens? Gardening?"

"Phineas would get mad if you told him that," Arthur says, but he can't help grinning.

"I s'pose it's different if you're gardening the Incomparable Gardens. That is to say, if you're incomparably gardening. Gardening incomparably?"

Arthur laughs, then feels bad for laughing, but that only makes him laugh more. It's a weird sort of laughter, like once it starts it doesn't want to stop. Arthur shudders, clutching at his sides, shaking with how hard he's laughing.

"Hey, are you ok?" Suzy asks, sounding concerned. "You're, uh, crying."

Arthur scrubs at his cheeks with the end of one sleeve, sniffling pathetically. "I c-can't help it," he says. "S-sorry..."

Suzy turns away, looking out at the strangely-coloured water. "Nuffin wrong with crying," she says, gruffly. "This is a weird situation. Chased by pirates and sailing with the Piper's brother! I thought it'd be more ink-filling when I woke this morning. It's a nice change, I guess. But you've got a family and all, a home and everything. It's not like you asked for this."

Arthur sniffles, wiping his nose against his now rather damp sleeve. "It's not like you did, either," he says.

"Don't think I did, anyway," Suzy says. "But I think I remember being glad to be gone, from wherever - or whenever - I was."

"So you don't want to go back?" Arthur asks. His sobs have finally stopped (thankfully; it's still embarrassing, but with Suzy looking away they can both pretend he wasn't bawling a few seconds ago) and his eyes are drying.

"It would be nice to grow up, I think," Suzy says distractedly. "But... I don't know. Life's not so bad, in the House. Monday's Dusk is nice to us Piper's Children, and it's not like washing between the ears happens that often."

Arthur and Suzy share the snack when the sun goes down, unable to ignore their protesting stomachs anymore. He drinks a lot of water, trying to trick his belly into thinking it's full, but then he has to go through the distressing process of going to the bathroom with Suzy sitting on the other side of the island pretending she doesn't know what's going on, so that doesn't really make things better at all.

The night gets cold really fast. There's only one small moon to bathe the strange landscape in cold, pale light. Suzy and Arthur huddle together against one of the trees, shivering.

"W-we just gotta wait for Monday, right?" Suzy says through chattering teeth. "'Is Lordship must know w-we're h-h-here."

"Y-yeah," Arthur says, but now he's starting to worry. The Mariner only said he'd tell Phineas, but if Phineas isn't around to get the message... does anyone know they're on this world? Arthur can't even pronounce its name, although the Mariner had repeated it twice after first Arthur then Suzy asked him to.

"Monday'll be here as soon as the day's over," Arthur says, trying to inject some confidence into his words.

He feels less convinced than ever after voicing that, though.


	39. Chapter 39

Arthur can't feel his hands or his feet anymore, so he's not entirely sure if he's dreaming or not when a beautiful woman wearing a dress that shimmers between all the colours of the dawn sky appears before him.

"I am Monday's Dawn," she says, crouching before Arthur and Suzy. She must be stronger than she looks, because she picks them up easily, cradling the children against her body as if they weigh nothing. White wings that glimmer silver in the moonlight unfold from her back, and she flies off with them.

He must pass out then, no longer feeling the need to stay awake. He's in the hands of Monday's servant, and she is warm, so he must be safe.

xx

"-_kill_ that fool-"

"Now, now. You should calm yourself, Monday, someone less familiar with you might think you're upset."

"You're damn right I'm upset!"

"You're worse than upset; you're irrational."

"I don't know why you're so calm about all this."

"I have to be; if I let my emotions get the better of me, the things I'm creating will go awry."

Arthur blinks, his eyes slowly focussing on his surroundings. He's lying on... a couch or something. He feels like he's under a hundred blankets, there's so many pressing down on him. It's very warm, though. Uncomfortably warm, in fact.

Arthur scowls and shoves at the blankets, until they slide off and hit the floor with a surprisingly loud thump.

"There, Arthur's fine. No harm done."

"No lasting harm, anyway," Monday mutters, stalking into view.

"Where am I?" Arthur asks, blinking up at him.

"My Dayroom," Monday says shortly, seating himself in a chair opposite Arthur's couch-thing. "Are you feeling all right?"

"... Thirsty," Arthur mumbles, licking his dry lips.

"Sneezer," Monday barks.

"Can I 'ave something to drink too, Your Lordship?" Suzy croaks from somewhere nearby.

"Yes, you _may_," Monday says.

"Thanks," Suzy says, blithely ignoring the pointed correction.

"Is Tuesday here? I thought I heard him..." Arthur raises his head, which aches in protest, and tries to look around.

"I'm here," Tuesday confirms; he's sitting near Monday, just out of Arthur's line of sight. He's wearing the gauntlets of the Second Key; there's a strange glob of black stuff in his hands, which he seems to be shaping.

"But isn't this the Lower House?"

"You and Monday visited me in the Far Reaches," Tuesday points out, not unkindly.

"Oh. Right." Arthur puts his head back down and closes his eyes. Then he reopens them "Wait, what happened back on Earth!?"

"Wednesday left after you boarded the Mariner's vessel," Monday says. "Perhaps in pursuit; the Seven Dials could not observe the Mariner's vessel once you landed, however. Wednesday's whereabouts are also unknown - the Seven Dials may only observe the Secondary Realms, and she seems not to be present in any of them at this time. The flood has relented, though there is some damage from the high levels of water. It is also Thursday."

"Thursday!" Arthur's voice cracks, his throat protesting. Sneezer appears, with a glass of orange juice. He helps Arthur sit up, and Arthur sips at it. "But... my family..."

"They know you're missing," Monday says, sounding almost apologetic.

"Ugh," Arthur groans. "At least Thursday hasn't done anything. Has he?"

"There does not seem to be anything wrong at this time," Monday says.

"Well, that's something," Arthur mutters, taking a longer draught of his orange juice.

"In retaliation, I have cut off the telephone and postal service to the Border Sea, the Great Maze and the Middle and Upper Houses," Monday says. "And Tuesday has embargoed them."

Arthur looks at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Of course," Monday says stiffly. "Wednesday attacked you! And she tried to claim the Keys. That is a serious offense."

"Are the other three Trustees in on it?" Arthur asks.

"Most likely," Tuesday says. The glob has somehow grown into a weirdly shaped object more than a foot long, which Tuesday is still shaping. "The rain started on Saturday, after all. And I do not imagine that Friday would sit idly by once she learned of our scheme."

"What about Thursday?"

"He seldom leaves the Great Maze," Monday says slowly. "Though the same can be said for most of the Trustees... However, Thursday is obsessed with his campaigns. I do not know if he would side with the other Trustees."

Arthur frowns at his mostly-empty glass of juice. Sneezer reappears and fills it. "Thanks," Arthur says distractedly, taking another sip. "Have we heard anything from Phineas?"

Monday frowns. "No."

"Darn," Arthur mutters, then drains his glass. Something hits the back of his throat and he splutters, spitting it out at Monday's feet. "Ugh, sorry, what-"

Monday's staring at the thing with a look of horror, which seems a little extreme. Sure, it's rude to spit on someone's carpet but...

"Is that-" Tuesday drops whatever he's holding and stalks over.

"What is it?" Suzy asks, peering over the edge of the couch beside Monday.

"Sir Thursday's shilling," Monday says blankly.

Suzy and Arthur exchange exasperated looks. "Which is what?" Arthur asks, trying not to let his irritation show. He's probably not very successful at hiding it, but Monday seems not to notice.

"It means you've been drafted into the Glorious Army of the Architect."

"_What_!?"


	40. Chapter 40

"It could be a mistake," Tuesday says, though he doesn't sound terribly convinced by his own words. "At any rate, Thursday would have to follow his own regulations... He can't take direct action against Arthur."

"No, he can just post Arthur to the frontlines, or some other equally dangerous place!" Monday hisses.

"He may not have knowingly drafted Arthur..."

A knock on the door interrupts them, and Monday's Dusk quickly enters. "Sir Thursday is here, with draft orders for Lord Arthur. They seem legitimate," he adds apologetically. "Noon is attempting to stall, however..."

"Thursday himself!?"

There goes the hope that Thursday hadn't meant to draft Arthur.

"Yes, master."

Before Monday can say anything else, a tall-ish Denizen strides in. He's in a red uniform, obviously military, and isn't especially handsome. But from the way Monday and Tuesday tense, Arthur assumes he must be Sir Thursday.

Another handsome Denizen with a silver tongue trails him, a chagrined look on his face. Monday's Noon.

"This is highly irregular," Monday snaps, his hand clenched around the hilt of the First Key.

Thursday raises an eyebrow, a hungry look in his deep-set eyes. "You can't really mean to fight me, Monday." He says it regretfully, like it's something that he wishes would happen but he knows will not. "You know as well as I do who would emerge the victor. Besides, there is nothing you can do to stop this. I am entirely within my rights to draft the recruit in question in person; Arthur has already accepted my shilling."

"Been tricked into accepting, you mean," Tuesday says, coldly.

"Tuesday. You're looking... vigorous. Thank you for finally filling my order for Nothing-powder and Not-Horses, by the way," Thursday says, offering a smile. It's all teeth though, and Arthur has to fight back a shudder.

"I'll supply all the Nothing-powder you want if you release Arthur from his century of service."

"A century!" Arthur blurts out, horrified. He can't spend a hundred years in the House, much less in an army. The Army. Whatever. He won't do it.

"I've learned the trick of producing my own," Thursday says. "Not quite as effective, considerably more unstable... But it is an acceptable substitute. I have no need of your bribes." His deep-set gaze turns to Arthur. "And yes, Arthur, a century. Every Denizen is required to serve a hundred years in the Glorious Army of the Architect, and your number has come up."

"And if I refuse?" Arthur asks.

"I have never waged war against mortals before," Thursday remarks. "But I understand they are responsible for much of the innovative weaponry that my Army now employs. Perhaps, unlike the Nithlings my forces usually face, fighting your humans will actually be something of a challenge."

Arthur shudders. Denizens are a lot tougher than humans, and even if they use weapons that would be considered antiquated on Earth, their very presence is harmful to mortals. Combined with the Nothing-laced powder that is deadly even to Denizens and their ability to regenerate from even grievous wounds... Arthur doesn't even need to think.

"I've never served in an army before," Arthur says. "But I'll do my best. Sir," he adds.

Thursday studies him, something like interest in his eyes. "I look forward to it, Recruit Penhaligon." His gaze sweeps the room. "I will allow you a few moments with your faithful retainers. Join me at the elevators in no more than five minutes, or I will have you transformed into a parcel and shipped to the Great Maze. Which could take a while because a certain Lower House administrator has, I understand, stopped the post."

Monday raises his chin, eyes narrowed.

"Thank you, sir," Arthur says.

Thursday salutes him, with Arthur belatedly and poorly following suit, and departs from the room at a brisk march.

"Arthur, you will be completely at Thursday's mercy if you agree to this!" Monday says, as soon as Thursday leaves.

"I have to agree with Monday," Tuesday says. "I'm sure we can come up with something to make Thursday change his mind."

"I already have agreed to it though. But thanks for worrying about me." It did make him feel a little better, even if he was also worried by their reactions.

"I was not _worried_," Monday hisses, sounding scandalized at the mere suggestion.

"Sure," Arthur says.

"I am not as oblivious to your disrespect as Sunday," Monday says stiffly.

Arthur grins, but refrains from pointing out that Monday hadn't said he _wasn't_ oblivious to it. "I know that. Look, sorry, it makes it easier to deal with if I can joke around. And anyway, he's bound by the rules of the Army now that I've been drafted too, like you said. It'll probably be fine."

"Sunday's overly optimistic and completely unrealistic attitude has rubbed off on you I see," Monday grumbles.

"Guess so. It's not like I have a _choice_, anyway. He said he'll attack Earth if I don't... I can't let that happen," Arthur says quietly. "Well, I better go if I don't want to become a parcel. Keep an eye out for Phineas, will you? I'm kind of worried that he hasn't shown up yet."


End file.
